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811 
D&7 
1855 


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THE 


POETICAL  WORKS 

OF 


AUGUSTINE  DUGANNE. 


SfonQS  are  a  Nation's  pulses,  ia^it^  Utscobcr 
/  Ef  tI)C  great  hotiD  be  as  Nature  toill'i; 

^ongs  are  tfjc  spasms  of  5oul, 
SCelling  us  lufjcii  men  suffer : 
Jieati  is  t\)e  Nation  s  fjeart  iufjose  ^ongs  are  stiiru. 


PHILADELPHIA: 
PARRY    &  MCMILLAN, 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1855,  by 
AUGUSTINE  DUGANNE, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the  Eastern 
District  of  Pennsylvania. 


STEREOTYPED  BY  L.  JOHNSON  AND  CO, 
PHILADELPHIA. 


C.  SHERMAN  &  SON,  PRINTERS. 


REMOTE  STORAGE 


1^^^  Poetical  Works. 


i 


A  WORD,  FROM  A  FRIEND 

TO   THE  AUTHOR. 


It  is,  of  a  Truth,  too  common  that 
the  World  hath  little  Care  of  its  chief- 
eft  Treafures,  whereby  too  often  it  hath 
loft  divers  Pearls,  and,  indeed,  firft-water 
Gems,  that  had  been  well  coveted  by 
the  lordlieft  Wifhes.  I  fpeak  not,  lim- 
ply, of  earthly  Treafures,  but  of  Jewels 
more  precious  and  of  greater  Worth 
than  kingly  Ranfoms, — none  other  than 
the  goodly  Thoughts  and  Imaginations 
of  Genius,  writ  for  the  Lovers  of  Truth 
and  Beauty,  and  finking,  plummet-deep, 
into  the  People's  Hearts,  there,  perad- 
venture,  to  beget  other  fair  Images,  and 
gentle  Thoughts.  Nor  fhould  this, 
haply,  give  Caufe  for  fpecial  Wonder: 
inafmuch  as  moft  Men  are  wont  to  clofe  q  o 
S  their  M 

%mm- —  — 


Duganne. 


IV 


their  Eyes  to  natural  Beauties  which  lie 
at  their  own  Doors,  journeying  far  to 
praife  the  Rarities  of  other  Lands,  though 
thefe  be  in  no  Refped:  fairer  or  richer 
than  their  own.  It  were  a  kindly  Pur- 
pofe  to  correal  this  HoUownefs  of  Judg- 
ment, and  to  feek  to  give  fair  Setting  to 
our  native  Gems,  that  the  public  Eye 
may  difcern  aright  their  intrinfic  Excel- 
lence. For  this  Reason  I  have  deemed 
it  Shame,  that  one  fo  notably  worthy  as 
yourfelf  fhould  go  unremembered — one 
whofe  Verfes  are  welcomed  gladly  into 
Men's  Souls — whofe  noble  Lyrics  have 
been  the  timely  Movers  of  Governmental 
Reforms  —  whofe  "  Iron  Lyre  "  hath 
ftruck  refponfive  Chord  in  the  Breaft  of 
the  Man  of  Labor,  teaching  him  the 
divine  Dignity  of  his  Calling — whofe 
ftirring  Strains  have  cheered  the  ftrug- 
gling  Patriot  in  the  Van  of  European 
Freedom,  and  whofe  tenderer  Harp  has 

ever 


Poetical  Works.  r^-^r-r 

 ^^.-i^v-r 


ever  been  touched  for  the  Moving  of 
pure  Thoughts  and  loving  Impulfes. 
And  if,  as  Horace  felicitoufly  exprefleth 
it  in  his  De  Arte  Poetica,  the  true 
Poet 

**  Omne  tulit  pimctum  qui  miscuit  utile  dulci, 
**  Lectorem  delectando,  paritcrque  moncndo," 

then,  surely,  your  own  Claims  may  nei- 
ther be  set  aside  wantonly  nor  heedleffly 
overlooked.  And  if  Aught  elfe  were 
wanting  (apart  from  its  deferving  Quali- 
ties) to  quicken  my  Delire  to  behold  your 
Verfe,  in  fynthetic  Garb,  winning  the 
Recognition  of  all  true  Hearts,  this 
were  largely  fupplied  by  the  earnefl:  Wifh 
of  Friends  (albeit  to  you  unknown)  to 
poflefs  a  full  Collection  of  thofe  fcatter- 
ed  Songs  which,  marked  by  real  Saxon 
Breadth  and  Sturdinefs,  prove  that  there 
lives  at  leaft  one  native  Bard,  who  quaffs 
the  Well  of  Englifh  undefiled." 
I  pray  you,  then,  as  a  Courtefy 

growing 


Duganne.   ^o^^^-^s 


f 

growing  out  of  our  long-time  Friend- 
fliip,  that  you  do  a  like  Juftice  to  yourfelf 
and  to  your  Friends,  by  allowing  me  to 
put  forth  in  fitting  Guife  a  complete 
Book  of  your  Poefy.  For,  as  the  wife 
Bacon  faith  :  "  How  many  Things  are 
"  there  which  a  Man  cannot,  with  any 
"  Face  or  Comelinefs,  fay  or  do  himfelf ! 
"  A  Man  can  fcarce  allege  his  own 
"  Merits  with  Modefty,  much  lefs  extol 
"  them;  a  Man  cannot  fometimes  brook 
"  to  fupplicate  or  beg ;  and  a  Number 
of  the  like :  but  all  thefe  things  are 
graceful  in  a  Friend's  Mouth,  which 
"  are  blufhing  in  a  Man's  own." 

And  I  fhall  not  reft,  therefore,  till  the 
good  Works  of  my  Friend  fhall  gain 
from  the  World  the  fame  Meed  of  Praife, 
which  myfelf  would  fain  beftow  ;  ftamp- 
ing  his  Deferts  with  that  appofite  Quo- 
tation from  Cervantes,  (in  his  never-to- 

be-  M 


Poetical  Works. 




Vll 


be-too-miich-admired  work,  the  Adven- 
tures of  Don  Quixote  de  la  Mancha)  : 

**  La  dulciflima  Poefia 

"  En  dulcifllmos  Concctos 

*'  Altos,  graves,  y  difcrctos." 

Quite  happy  I  fliall  be  to  have  fpeedy 
Ansv^er : 

Meanwhile, 

My  dear  Author, 
I  remain, 

Moft  fincerely. 

Your  friend. 


James  Lesley,  Jr. 


Ironcroft,  High-Street, 
Phila.,  Jan.,  1855. 


■^=—    


r 


<  A  WORD  FROM  THE  AUTHOR 

TO  HIS  FRIEND. 


Was  it  all  a  Fable,  my  Friend,  the  Ex- 
iftence  of  Florida's  Fountain,  whence  old 
Ponce  de  Leon  fought  to  drink  perpetual 
Youth  ?  As  I  now  here  lie  tofling  upon 
my  Sick-bed,  your  welcome  Miflive 
comes  to  wile  me  into  Oblivion  of 
Suffering.  May  not,  then,  the  Well- 
fprings  of  Friendfhip  yield  a  Draught 
ftrengthening  as  the  Elixir  of  Life  itfelf  ? 
For  your  Wifh  regarding  my  humble 
"  Works,"  it  is  granted  as  foon  as  afked  ; 
and,  believe  me,  there  is  no  one  to 
whofe  Keeping  I  would  more  gladly 
confide  my  good  Name  in  Life,  or  my 
pofthumous  Fame,  fhould  I  foon  follow 
the  dear  ones  whofe  Departure  leaves  me 
very  lonely  in  the  World.     And  to  you, 

who 


1 


o 


IZ 

who  know  that  it  is  my  Wont  ever  to  ^, 
"  take  Arms  againft  a  Siege  of  Troubles, 
and  by  oppofing  end  them,"  I  deem  it 
no  Shame  to  own  that  were  it  not  for  ' 
fuch  friendly  Hearts  as  your  own  and  a 
few  we  both  love,  I  fhould  find  little 
elfe  to  cheer  my  Muse  but  the  ftern 
Requirements  of  Duty. 


Strong-fwimming,  with  his  over-wcary  Brcaft 

The  rough  Wave  battling, — while  his  outftretched  Hand 
Slow  ftruggles  toward  the  Land, — 
The  ftorm-beat  Seaman  nears  the  wreck-ftrewn  Strand : 

II. 

Call:  feaward,  by  the  Breakers' billowy  Creft, 

His  Strength  o'er  wreftled,  and  his  Heart  beat  back 
Into  the  Midnight  black. 
With  dying  Cry  he  finks  amid  the  Wrack ! 

III. 

So  toiling,  wrefthng  through  the  billowy  Wafte, 
His  lifted  Harp  out-reaching  to  the  World, — 
So,  feaward  hurl'd, — 
The  ftruggling  Bard  to  unknown  Doom  is  whirl'd ; 

IV. 

Save,  only,  when  by  friendly  Hand  embraced. 
Upheld  o'er  Death  by  Brother-grafp  like  thine, 
1  He  fpurns  the  ftormy  Brine, 

c)  And  makes  his  Heart  his  Harp — as  I  do  mine. 


{ 


<^>  ""S^"""  *al 

y 

That  your  Tafte  will  fecure  the  Pre- 
fentation  of  my  Mufe  "  in  a  "  fitting 
Guife  "  I  have  no  doubt,  and  if  fhe  find 
that  Favor  with  the  World  which  your 
Friendfhip  would  anticipate,  I  shall,  I  am 
fure,  have  no  Reafon  to  complain. 

I  remain. 

My  dear  Lesley, 

Faithfully  yours, 

The  Author. 


.  Poetical  Works.  ^^.^sri 

P^^=-    -=<-^^A 


M^"   ^ 


Duganne. 


INTELLECTUALLY  AND  MORALLY 

fyx  %  (g0j(ji  0f  fjumanitg, 

THIS  POEM 

IS  LOVINGLY  INSCRIBED. 


A 


Poetical  Works. 


JlBission  of  MtWnt 

PART  FIRST. 

THE  VISION. 

WAS  a  student  in  tlie  schools  of  earth — 
I  was  a  wrestler  in  the  strife  for  gain — 
Until  a  Voice,  which  was  not  of  myself, 
Out-led  my  soul  from  life.    My  refluent 
thought, 

Upon  the  electric  wires  of  wondrous  sleep. 
Had  compassed  the  immeasurable  Past, 
And  journeyed  with  the  Ages !    I  had  trod 
The  ice-tesselated  temples  whose  dread  shrines 
Are  the  upthrown  vitals  of  extinct  volcanoes; 
Whose  columns  are  gnarled  clouds, — whose  awful  arch 
Springs  through  the  mazy  stars — its  architraves 
The  garnered  winds — its  visionless  capitals 
The  footstools  of  that  unseen  deity 
Whom  men  call  Science — 

And  my  soul  had  sunk — 
Even  from  those  wildering  deserts  it  had  sunk, 
Sounding  a  measureless  deepness,  through  the  sweep 
Of  whirlpools  that  ingulf  the  ^^Torthern  seas, 
Down  to  the  interminable  caves  of  Ocean ! 


Duganne. 

ffjgeo^^    ^«^^vS' 

MISSION  OF  USTELLECT. 

I  trod  the  iinfathomed  waters, — where  the  forms 
Of  vasty  snakes  like  islands  lie  entombed — 
I  passed  the  innumerable  host  of  Dead, 
Marshaled  like  armies,  where  attraction  wanes, 
And  bodies  have  no  weight.    I  climbed  the  hills 
Of  long-forgotten  treasures — heaps  of  gold, 
And  piles  of  gorgeous  merchandry,  that  years 
And  ages  have  collected,  in  the  marts 
Of  that  dead  empire  Ocean — whence  again 
No  caravan  shall  bear  them — whence  not  one 
Of  all  the  uncounted  fleets  that  in  the  ports 
Of  sunless  silence  ride  in  endless  lines. 
Shall  voyage  forth — beneath  the  flag  of  Mammon. 

Cold  Science — throned  upon  her  awful  snows ! 
And  Mammon — reigning  o'er  the  withered  wrecks 
Of  a  dead  ocean ! — these  my  soul  surveyed, 
Like  one  who  lifts  the  mantle  of  his  fate, 
And  seeth  perdition. — These  had  been  my  quest! 
Science  I  wooed — to  freeze  in  her  embrace  ; 
And  Mammon  conquered — to  be  Mammon's  slave 
Too  late  I  learned  it,  as  in  agony 
My  spirit  moaned  aloud. — ''Behold!"  I  cried — 
"The  Heritage  of  Science  cannot  bless — 
The  Power  of  Mammon  cannot  save  mankind! 
Tell  me,  0  angel  of  my  dreams !  reveal 
The  glorious  talisman  which  shall  illume 
Mine  Intellect  and  glorify  my  Life  ! 


(J) 


Poetical  Works. 

'^^-N^   '-^^\'sS 


MISSION  OK  INTKLLKOT. 


Then  answered  nie  the  Voice  of  Dreams,  and  said 

Strange  words  which  were  of  niy  own  life  long  past ; 

As  thoiigli  my  whole  existence  had  been  glassed 
Within  some  wizard  disc,  whereon  I  read 

All  that  I  was  or  might  have  been — the  vast 

Minutiie  of  all  deeds,  from  first  to  last, 
Of  my  unnoted  being — each  small  thread 
Of  that  strange  woof  which  from  my  very  birth  had  led. 


As  on  a  panorama  I  did  look, 

Wherein  depicted  were  my  thought  and  deed ; 

N"ot  as  I  erst  had  reckoned  them,  but  freed 
From  gloss  and  mist  of  earth — or  like  a  book, 

In  which,  beneath  the  context,  I  might  read 

The  marginals  by  which  the  sense  was  keyed. 
Fain  had  I  now^  been  blind — for  scarce  could  brook 
Mine  eyes  to  thus  behold  what  shades  my  being  took. 


i 


For  in  that  scroll  of  knowledge,  which  nor  veil 
Nor  coloring  had,  I  did  Myself  behold. 
And  saw  each  secret  of  my  life  unrolled ; 

Like  some  degraded  knight,  whose  trenchant  mail. 
Albeit  of  proven  steel  or  studded  gold, 
Is  hacked  from  off  his  body,  fold  by  fold ; 

Until  quite  naked,  shivering,  and  pale. 

He  stands  all  stripped  and  weak,  at  every  wind  to  quail. 

SS^e^  ~    ^^^Q- 


i  Duganne. 

^9=  6   

MISSION  OF  IXTKLLKCT. 

Therein  I  saw  tlie  virtues  which  I  i)rized 

As  mine  own  honor,  were  hut  dust  and  dross ; 
Therein  I  found  each  fancied  gain  hut  loss; 

And  saw  hhack  deeds  in  shining  garh  disguised ; 
And  marked  how  evil  thoughts  hore  holy  gloss — 
Like  a  dark  atheist  who  wears  a  cross. 

Each  sin  I  knew,  and  felt  like  one  despised. 

Who,  seeking  Jordan's  wave,  in  Dead  Sea  is  baptized. 

Like  one  aroused  from  a  dreamsome  state 
By  rattling  thunders  in  continuous  clash, 
The  while  beneath  him  rolls  an  earthquake's  crash; 

Who,  fleeing  wildly  from  his  toppling  gate, 
Beholdeth  by  the  fitful  lightning's  flash, 
A  lurid  lake  pursue,  with  sullen  plash, 

Wherein  the  goodly  mansions,  his  so  late. 

Devoured  by  scoriae  waves,  sink  darkly  to  their  fate. 

Thus  on  the  sum  of  all  that  I  had  lost 

My  fearful  memory  dwelt — the  wasted  hours 

In  which  I  danced  unknowing  o'er  crush'd  flowers ; 

And  jewels  to  the  wind  like  ashes  tost; 

And  builded  what  had  seemed  defiant  towers, 
That  now  were  mist — and  planted  rosy  bowers 

That  now  were  arid  sands, — 0  God !  the  cost 

Of  these,  which  was  a  life-time,  now  my  vision  cross'd. 


H^SL^  Poetical  Works._^_(;  " 


MISSION  OK  INTKM.KCT. 


Then  did  this  Voice  of  Tnitli,  with  whispers  low, 
Like  drip  of  hiddcMi  waters,  till  mine  ears 
With  knowledge  of  myself,  until  with  tears, 

That  rained  out  of  each  heart-throh  faint  and  slow, 
I  bowed  nic  down,  oppressed  with  chilling  fears; 
As  some  great  criminal  his  sentence  hears. 

And  while  his  blood  hath  half  forgot  to  flow. 

Attempts  to  grasp  in  thought  the  vastness  of  his  wo. 


I^"athless  the  Voice  spake  not  to  wound  or  pain, 
Save  as  'twas  meet  that  it  severely  should. 
E'en  for  my  soul's  behoof  and  endless  good ; 

Like  as  the  reverend  leech  must  ope  a  vein. 
Or  probe  a  wound,  albeit  with  cautery  rude. 
So,  as  the  leech,  with  soothing  power  imbued, 

Was  this  low  Voice  of  Dreams,  whose  gentle  strain 

Was  healing  while  it  hurt  my  heavy  heart  and  brain. 


And  I  uprose,  when  that  the  Voice  had  ceased, 

Like  paralytic  from  Bethesda's  pool ; 

Or,  as  arose  Kaaman,  fresh  and  cool, 
From  Jordan's  waters, — with  a  life  new  leased, 

It  seemed,  from  God's  own  hand — and  with  a  rule 

Of  life  to  guide  me ;  as  from  Heaven's  school 
A  teacher  in  my  breast — a  blessed  priest 
Of  the  Most  High — to  give  my  soul  a  holy  feast. 


»7   B 


Duganne. 


^  °  =^±^ 

MISSION  OK  INTKLMOCT. 

The  Voice  wont  out  before  nie,  as  a  wind, 
And  drew  my  weeping  soul !    Night  followed  night, 
And  days  fled  swiftly  on  the  rolling  wheels 
Of  golden  suns ;  and  seasons,  like  swift  steeds, 
Burdened  with  wealth,  and  driven  by  ancient  Time, 
Hushed  past  my  sight,  and  vanished.    On,  and  on — 
My  soul  moved,  trembling,  through  the  deeps  of  space : 
Cherubim  brushed  it  with  their  snowy  wings. 
And  radiant  angels  of  the  mercy-seat 
Breathed  Eden's  odors,  as  they  earthward  passed. 
Drying  my  tears  with  their  celestial  smiles. 
On,  through  the  deeps  of  space — a  million  worlds, 
Dazzling  in  hazy  glory,  crossed  my  sight; 
Myriads  of  stars  stretched  gleaming  from  my  gaze. 
And  countless  suns  in  bright  eflfulgence  burned. 


Then  fell  my  soul  into  a  wildering  trance 
Of  mystic  silence.    Solitude  seemed  bowed 
By  the  awful  weight  of  an  eternal  hush : 
There  was  no  atmosphere — no  pulse,  to  thrill 
With  subtlest  whisper : — vision  was  no  more. 
For  light  was  absent.    All  was  darksome  void. 
Where  matter  and  its  attributes  were  not — 
Where  Chaos  yet  was  viewless  ! — 

And  there  pressed 
A  weight  upon  my  brain,  as  if  a  cloud 
Of  madness  were  approaching — and  I  cried. 
That  this  was  Death — and  that  there  was  no  God  1 


Poetical  Works 

4^ 


MISSION  OK  INTKI.LKCT. 

Then  answered  me  the  Voice  of  Truth:  "Behold! 
Thus  is  Life  dead — thus  Godless  is  the  world — 
When  Intellect  bows  down  at  Mammon's  feet." 

Then  suddenly,  as  with  electric  flame, 
A  light  fell  all  around  me,  and  a  sound. 
As  of  a  thousand  pinions,  rocked  my  soul ! 
The  immensity  of  visible  space  revealed 
Itself  before  me, — and  the  stars  fled  back, 
And  systems  melted  into  mist — and  suns 
Dissolved  in  ambient  radiance, — until  space 
All  space — was  peopled  by  my  soul  alone ! — 

My  vision  swept  the  untenanted  universe, 
And  from  the  dimness  of  Infinity 
I  heard  the  whisper  of  the  Uncreate, 
.  And  bowed  my  listening  spirit.    Then  arose. 
Slowly,  and  like  a  phantom  shape,  from  out 
The  invisible  Beyond,  a  shadowy  globe ; — 
And  my  soul  knew  it  was — the  Earth  ! 
An  atmosphere  of  congelated  tears 
Covered  her  brow  as  with  a  hoary  frost. 
And  the  deep  stirred  around  her — as  with  sighs. 

Once  more  the  awful  accents  of  that  Voice 
Controlled  my  heart.   "  E'ow  shalt  thou  mark  the  earth ! 
And,  from  the  Universe  of  thy  Intellect, 
Behold  Humanity  even  as  it  is !" 

19 


Duganne. 


MISSION  OK  INTKLLKCT. 

Then,  with  a  measureless  reach,  as  if  one  blind 
Sliould  strain  for  sight,  niy  soul  looked  trembling  down, 
And  saw  where,  stretched  athwart  the  boreal  snows, 
An  old  man,  tossed  with  a  tempestuous  grief, 
Lay  writhing — while  above,  in  midway  light, 
Rose,  like  a  sorrowing  god  before  mine  eyes. 
The  Angel  of  the  Wretched.    He  was  crowned 
With  thorns,  that  gleamed  amid  the  light  like  gems ; 
His  brow  was  rigid,  as  with  conquered  grief. 
And  his  bright  eyes  glittered  with  unwept  tears  ! 
I  trembled  as  his  sorrowing  glance  met  mine, 
And  my  soul  bowed  like  Mary  at  the  tomb, 
When  the  angel  talked  with  her. 

And  then  I  knew, 
That  the  old  man,  wrestling  with  his  mighty  grief, 
Like  Jacob  with  the  Evangel  of  the  Lord, 
Was  the  great  mass  of  crushed  Humanity — 
The  bound  Prometheus  of  a  suffering  world — 
Chained  to  the  earth  with  shackles,  which  the  kings 
And  great  ones  of  all  time  have  forged  from  sw^ords 
And  spears,  in  the  dread  furnace  of  red  War — 
Whose  fires  are  fanned  by  mortals'  dying  breaths, 
And  fed  by  slavery's  hecatombs  of  lives ! 

Then,  like  the  waters  of  the  deep,  updrawn 
B}^  the  pale  moon,  my  tears  gushed  thickly  forth 
Beneath  the  angel's  glance ;  and  stretching  out 


Poetical  Works. 

   ^ 

MISSION  OK  INTKI.I.KCT. 

Mine  arms,  tlie  while  my  bosom  heaved  and  tossed 
Like  a  stirred  sea, — I  lifted  up  my  voice, 
As  Samuel  'mid  the  Holies:    "Here  am  I — 
Speak :  Lord  !  thy  servant  lieareth  !" 

And  that  Voice 
Wliich  had  out-led  me  from  the  world,  and  showed 
The  desert  throne  of  Science,  and  the  dead, 
Unsentient  realm  of  Mammon, — now  spake  low, 
In  a  strange  whisper,  as  if  all  the  waves 
Of  space  were  breathing  lips ;  and  the  wide  sound, 
Circling  infinitude  with  a  subtile  reach. 
Thrilled  through  my  swaying  soul — "Arise,  and  work 
While  the  day  lasteth — for,  behold !  the  Night 
Cometh,  when  no  man  worketh." 

Lo !  that  Voice 
Troubled  the  waters  of  mine  unbelief, 
And  healed  mine  ignorance  ! — "Behold !"  I  cried — 
"Behold  Humanity  is  crushed  to  earth — 
Mankind  is  cursed  through  toil."    Then  answered  n 
A  sound  as  of  the  tread  of  marching  orbs, 
Rending  the  heavens  ! — and  it  said  once  more, 
"Arise,  and  work  !"    I  trembled,  and  obeyed. 
Even  from  those  infinite  heights  I  sank  to  Earth, 
And  stood  beside  Humanity  ! 


Duganne. 


MISSION  Oh-  INTELLECT. 


APOSTROPHE. 


O,  Earth  !  0  beautiful  and  wondrous  earth ! 


Jewelled  with  souls,  and  warm  with  generous  hearts ! 
The  morning  stars  sang  gladly  at  thy  birth ! 
And  all  God's  sons,  through  Heaven's  unmeasured  girth, 

Shouted  w^ith  joy  !    Lo !  when  thy  life  departs, 
All  things  created  shall  surcease,  and  thou — 
Girt  with  great  ITature's  wrecks — shalt  proudly  bow. 
And  with  the  crumbling  stars  bedeck  thy  dying  brow. 

0  bounteous  earth  !    Thy  fresh  and  teeming  breast 
Hath  nourishment  for  all  the  tribes  of  men  ! 

God  is  still  with  thee,  and  thy  womb  is  blest ! 

Still  with  abundant  good  thou  travailest ! 
And  thy  dead  Ages  fructify  again. 

With  a  new  increase  !    Yet,  0  Earth !  behold — 

Millions  are  perishing  with  pangs  untold ! 

Thy  children  faint,  O  Earth,  for  bread  reluctant  doled ! 

Mysterious  Earth !    Thou  hast  within  thy  deeps 
The  boundless  stores  of  science  !    The  immense 

Arcanum  of  all  glorious  knowledge  sleeps 

"Within  thine  arms,  and  awful  ^Tature  keeps 
Watch  o'er  the  treasuries  of  Omnipotence  ! 

O  mother  Earth !  why  are  thy  golden  plains 

Made  fields  of  torture,  and  thine  iron  veins  I 

O'er- wrought  for  weary  war,  and  forged  to  cruel  chains  ? 


Poetical  Works. 

^i^f'^GKSi^    -oyB^'G^. 

MISSION  OK  INTKM.KCT. 


PILGRIMAGE. 

Thus  murmured  I,  as  in  the  lonely  night 

I  wandered  from  the  city's  sights  and  sounds — 
Where  passion's  variant  moods,  in  endless  rounds, 

Were  racing  with  the  hours — where  false  delight. 
And  hollow  joy,  and  folly  without  bounds, 
And  reckless  riot  which  the  soul  astounds. 

Were  but  the  usual  objects  of  my  sight, 

And  grown  so  thick  with  life  as  seldom  to  aflright. 

I  left  behind  the  crowded  thoroughfares. 

Where  streams  of  laughing  folly  dashed  along ! 
I  passed  the  theatres,  where  sin  and  song 

Were  mingled — turned  me  from  the  brilliant  squares — 
And  reached  the  darksome  avenues,  among 
The  bleak  abodes  of  poverty  and  wrong ; 

Where  wretched  outcasts  crouch  within  their  lairs. 

And  God's  fair  workmanship  a  demon's  impress  bears ! 

And,  as  with  hurried  feet  I  nearer  drew 

To  narrow  streets,  where  Wo  and  Shame  and  Want 
Were  task-masters,  and  Hunger,  grim  and  gaunt. 

Wolf-like  clutched  human  throats,  and  overthrew 
The  souls  of  men, — there  came,  in  garment  scant, 
A  woman  to  my  side,  whose  gait  aslant, 

And  swaying  steps,  seemed  of  her  sin  the  clue — 

That  most  unhappy  sin  which  all  the  good  must  rue ! 

   --^^^^G)- 


i 


,9=- 


Duganne. 


MISSION  OF  IXTKLLECT. 


If 


With  tangled  hair,  and  hloodshot,  stormy  eyes, 


And  hands  clenched  nervously  across  her  breast, 
As  to  her  heart  some  treasure  she  had  prest ; 
"With  swinging  motion,  and  strange,  gasping  cries. 
As  if  of  some  lost  thing  she  was  in  quest — 
Like  a  wild  bird  when  foes  have  robbed  its  nest, — 
This  woman  came  to  me,  and  with  low  sighs 
Sank  prostrate  at  my  feet,  and  gasped  like  one  who  dies. 

And  over  her  I  bent,  and  raised  her  brow 
Beneath  the  yellow  moonbeams,  and  beheld 
How  all  its  blood  was  from  her  face  dispelled ; 

And  how  the  furrows  deep  which  sorrows  plough, 
Were  graven  on  cheek  and  brow  in  many  a  weld ; 
But  Grief,  and  not  Intemperance,  had  quelled 

Her  hapless  brain,  and  she,  in  truth,  was  now 

A  maniac  woman,  doomed  to  gibber  and  to  mow. 

And  this  poor  being  fixed  on  me  the  glare 

Of  her  glassed  eyes,  while  on  her  lips  the  froth 
Of  a  wild  spasm  gathered — and,  as  loth, 
Even  in  her  madness,  stranger  looks  to  bear, 
Struggled  within  my  grasp,  and  waxing  wroth, 
Eent  with  her  nervous  hand  the  tattered  cloth 
That  hid,  but  shielded  not,  her  breast,  and  there — 
Slumbering  in  peace,  I  saw — an  infant  wondrous  fair ! 


Poetical  Works. 

T 


MISSION  OK  INTKM-KCT 


There  is  nought  holier  than  an  infant's  sleep! 
For  the  sanctifieation  of  its  innocence 
Enshrines  its  soul — a  shelter  and  defence ; 
Like  crystal  wave,  unfathomahly  deep, 

That  guards  some  blessed  island,  and  prevents 
The  unhallowed  entrance  of  all  dark  intents : 
Or  like  the  viewless  cherubim  that  keep 
AVatch  over  Eden's  gates,  lest  sin  within  should 
creep. 

And  cherubim  there  are — though  visionless — 
Who  fold  the  infant  with  their  heavenly  wings. 
And  soothe  its  slumber  with  soft  whisperings 

Of  the  eternal  Love  and  Holiness 

Of  God !    0,  radiant  beautiful  things — 
Glimpses  of  glory !  bright  imaginings 

Of  Eden — must  they  be,  which  oft  impress 

An  infant's  lips  with  smiles  whose  meaning  none  may 
guess. 


And  this  fair  child,  which  now  in  slumber  lay 

Upon  its  mother's  bosom,  like  a  rose 

That  on  a  lightning-blasted  cedar  grows ; 
This  child — which  seemed  a  cherubic  Estray — 

Awoke  not  from  that  innocent  repose. 

Though  its  frame  shook  with  the  convulsive  throes 
Wliich  rent  the  mother,  as,  with  maniac  sway. 
She  struggled  to  her  feet,  and  flung  my  grasp  away.  A 


Duganne. 


MISSION  OF  INTELl.KCT. 

■jam-     Unscared  the  infuiit  slumbered,  while  below 
W         Its  roseate  cheek  throbbed  that  wild  woman's  heart,  W 

A  ...  4 

As  from  its  seat  it  would  in  madness  start; 
Even  as  fair  Virtue  on  the  breast  of  Wo 
Calmly  reclines,  with  life  and  soul  apart 
From  all  the  raging  thoughts  that  fiercly  dart 
Their  arrowy  flames  beneath  it,  to  and  fro ! 
The  child  slept  on,  nor  guilt  nor  madness  could  it 
know. 


But  yearnings  in  my  heart,  that  seemed  to  plead 
For  the  mad  woman's  babe,  forbade  my  feet 
To  turn,  till,  haply,  I  might  soothe  the  heat 

Of  its  wild  mother's  passion,  and  outlead 

The  frenzy  from  her  mind,  that  throbbed  and  beat 
Like  smothered  flame  within  the  burning  seat 

Of  her  poor  brain ; — for  madness,  like  a  reed, 

Is  swayed  as  ye  may  will — if  ye  its  humors  heed. 


So  I  no  longer  wrestled  with  the  rage 

That  swelled  her  heart — but  fixed  on  her  my  gaze ; 
Like  one  who  tenderly  some  grief  surveys, 
Which  he  with  gentle  act  would  fain  assuage ; 

And  as  she  marked,  with  wonder  scarce  concealed, 
The  unusual  pity  which  my  looks  revealed — 
Pity  that  words  in  vain  might  strive  to  speak — 
I  bent  once  more  my  head — and  kissed  her  baby's  cheek. 

^^4-    


Poetical  Works. 


MISSION  OK  INTKM-KCT. 


Behold!  at  once  the  darksome  street  grew  bright 
With  golden  beams,  whose  histre  pure  and  mild 
Fell  o'er  the  mother's  form,  and  wrapped  the  child ! 
I  turned — and,  clad  in  robes  of  clustering  light. 
Dazzling  as  those  in  heavenly  courts  that  beam, 
I  saw  the  radiant  Angel  of  my  Dream  ; 
And  heard  the  Voice — but  now  with  sweeter  sound — 
"  0  Intellect  !  thou  hast  thy  Mission  found  ! 

ORDINATION. 

"  Go  forth,  and  find  amid  the  world  thy  field : 
And  such  as  these  shall  teach  thee  how  to  live ! 
Go  forth,  and  mark  the  sorrows  of  thy  race, 
And  soothe  the  madness  of  their  ignorance ! 
Go  forth,  and  preach  that  earth  is  cursed  by  toil, 
Because  that  toil  is  linked  with  want  and  wo ! 
Be  this  thy  Mission — to  exalt  the  doom, 
By  patient  virtue  and  by  watchful  love  ! 
Be  thine  to  teach  that  man  is  kin  to  man  ! — 
That  stars  may  glimmer  through  the  darkest  night, 
And  flowerets  bloom  amid  the  rankest  weeds ; 
That  in  God's  plan  there  is  no  evil  thing 
Which  may  not  yet  take  hold  on  purity !" 

Silent  the  Voice  :  but  I,  with  quivering  lips, 
Implored  the  Angel's  name. — Then  answered  me 
Those  flutelike  tones,  o'erswaying  all  my  heart, 
And  said,  "Behold — I  am  thy  Comforter ! 

 ■  — 


f 

A 


va/^  Duganne.  c-rx^ 

S^*3==   — - — 

I)  MISSION  OF  IN'TKI-LECT.  {  Zy^ 


T 


By  me  the  rocky  fountains  of  bard  hearts 
Arc  touched,  as  with  the  prophet's  wand,  and  gush 
In  holiest  streams ;  by  me  the  stone  of  grief 
Is  rolled  from  off  the  mourner's  sepulchre, 
And  Christ  ariseth  'mid  its  gloom ;  by  me 
Are  souls  made  free  from  error's  leprosy. 
As  Naaman  in  Jordan ;  at  my  touch 
The  bolts  and  shackles  of  misfortune's  prison 
Fall,  as  fell  Peter's,  when  the  angel  came  ! 
I  am  the  calmer  of  life's  raging  waves  ! 
To  me  men  cry,  when  sinking — Help  !  we  perish  ! 
Blessed  are  they  who  have  my  power  confessed — 
And  they  who  love  me — they  are  truly  blest !" 

Thy  name  !    I  cried — as  bent  my  trembling  knee — 
Thy  ISTame  !    The  Angel  answered,  "  Charity  !" 
The  Vision  passed — but  I  remained  enwrapt, 
Like  him  of  Tarsus,  when  the  awful  light 
Shone  round  about  him.    But  my  soul  had  learned 
Its  mission  among  mankind,  and  it  burned 
To  speak  the  exalted  truth  to  kindred  mind — 
That  Intellect  is  steward  for  mankind  ! 
That  mental  life  is  more  than  mental  dreaming. 
That  earth  is  still  no  sham — and  heaven  no  seeming ; 
That  untaught  souls  will  find  an  untrue  God  : 
For  ignorance  will  worship  still  its  clod  ! 
That  sacred  fire  may  flame  on  various  shrines; 
For  Love  is  bound  by  no  sectarian  lines  !  A 


Poetical  Works.  =4^^ 

MIHHION  OK  INTKLI.KCT. 


PART  SECOND. 

EXORDIUM. 

Men  of  mind  !  O,  incii  of  mind  ! 
Ye  who  wield  the  mighty  Pen, 
Scanning  souls  with  angel-ken  ! 

Ye  who  mould  our  human-kind 
In  the  matrix  of  your  thought, — 
"Why  have  ye  for  ages  wrought — 
(Moral  miracle  and  wonder !) — 
Still  asunder — still  asunder? 

Men  of  mind  !    0,  men  of  mind  ! 
Could  the  electric  fire  of  Soul 
Fuse  ye  in  one  glowing  whole, — 

Could  the  immortal  flame,  enshrined 
In  each  stranger  heart  and  brain, 
Flash  from  one  tremendous  fane  I — 
Then  might  all  the  world  awaken — 
Then  would  Earth  with  joy  be  shaken  ! 

Men  of  mind  !  0,  men  of  mind  ! 
Ye  are  stewards  of  your  Lord — 
Ye  are  treasurers  of  his  word  ! 

Whatsoe'er  on  earth  ye  bind, 

Lo  !  it  shall  be  bound  in  heaven  ! 
Wbat  by  you  on  earth  is  riven 
Shall  in  heaven  be  loosed  and  broken — 
Lo  !  the  Eternal  Voice  hath  spoken  ! 
29 


f 


Duganne, 


MISSION  OF  INTKLLKCT. 

Men  of  mind  !  0,  men  of  mind  ! 
Flash  your  million  souls  in  one — 
Let  the  stars  become  the  sun  ! 

Be  ye  as  your  God  designed  ! 
Then  shall  Error  withering  fall — 
Then  shall  perish  Wrong  and  Thrall ! 
Then  shall  Freedom's  Anthem  rise — 
Earth's  eternal  Sacrifice ! 


INVOCATION. 
I. 

Hearts  of  love  and  souls  of  daring,  in  the  world's  high 

field  of  action — 
Ye  who  cherish  God's  commandments,  bending  not  to 

rank  or  faction : 
Ye  whose  lives  in  slothful  pleasure  never  sink  nor  idly 

stagnate — 

Ye  who  wield  the  scales  of  Justice,  weighing  peasant- 
man  with  magnate, — 

Lo !  the  Voice  of  Benediction  falls  upon  you  from  on 
High: 

Ye  are  chosen — je  are  missioned — ye  are  watched  by 
Heaven's  Eye ! 


Poetical  Works. 


=8- 


MIMHION  OK  INTKM.KOT. 


II. 


Ye  have  voices,  thoughts  and  feelings — they  were  given 

by  God  to  bless  you : 
Pour  them  forth,  till  Wrong  shall  hear  you — till  it  fear 

you,  and  redress  you  ! 
Ye  have  friends  in  all  God's  servants — friends  in 

Heaven,  with  power  supernal — 
Friends  in  all  who  worship  justice,  all  who  fear  the 

great  Eternal  : 
Raise  your  voices  from  the  Forum — challenge  Wrong 

upon  its  throne — 
Let  your  avalanchine  warnings  sweep  the  earth  from 

zone  to  zone ! 


Speak  ye  boldly !  pause  not — fear  not !  God  is  reign- 
ing still  above  you : 

Pour  the  truth,  like  light,  o'er  mankind,  if  they  hate 
or  if  they  love  you ! 

Like  the  Swiss,  like  Arnold  Winkelried(^) — his  valorous 
watchword  crying — 

Ye  may  "make  a  path  for  liberty!" — though  in  it  ye 
lie  dying ! 

Like  old  Decius,  white-robed  warrior — ^priest  and  vic- 

tim(^) — ride  ye  on : 
Matters  not  if  ye  shall  perish,  so  the  glorious  Cause  be 

won! 


III. 


^M^SL^   Duganne.   ^^.jj^Cg 

MISSION  01'  INTKLLECT. 

IV. 

Thougli  ye  bleed  as  John  the  Baptist — though  ye  suf- 
fer as  St.  Stephen — 
Pause  not !  fear  not !  hurl  your  warnings  o'er  the  earth 

like  gleaming  levin ! 
Lo !  your  fall  shall  raise  up  witnesses,  your  death  shall 

prove  your  mission, 
And  your  murderers  will  bedew  your  dust  with  tears 

of  sad  contrition : 
Cry  aloud  amid  life's  desert — 'mid  the  wilderness  of 
earth — 

And  "prepare  the  way !"  like  him  who  first  announced 
the  Saviour's  birth ! 


Trust  in  heaven,  though  ye  be  lowly !  weak  and  lowly 

were  those  preachers, 
Who,  from  fishermen  of  Galilee,  became  Creation's 

teachers : 

Pause  ye  not,  though  musty  learning  hath  not  doled 

its  scanty  morsels — 
For  the  flaming  tongues  of  knowledge  filled  with  fire 

the  Twelve  Apostles ! 
Truth  will  shame  the  crafty  schoolmen — fill  the  hoary 


Poetical  Works. 


MISSION  OK  INTKM.ECT. 


VI. 


Intellect  hath  Voice  forever!     Let  that  Voice  be 

iiriii,  iinquavering — 
As  the  dauntless  Three  of  Israel,  in  the  furnace  still 

unwavering ! 

Lift  your  prayers  like  ancient  Daniel — praising  God 

amid  the  lions : 
Smite  the  priests  of  cruel  Dagons — crush  the  shrines  of 

gilded  Dians — 
Preach  ye  now  like  him  of  Tarsus,  when  the  hill  of  Mars 

he  trod : 

Words  of  virtues  long  forgotten — tidings  of  the  Un- 
known God  !(^) 


Speak  ye  boldly !  from  your  temple-tops,  Muezzin-like, 

give  warning  !(^) 
Bid  your  brother's  eyes  turn  sun-ward — bid  him  hail 

the  Future's  morning. 
Point  where  Truth  hath  reared  her  Kaaba(^) — point  the 

Mecca  of  salvation — 
Till,  like  Moslems  at  the  minaret-call,  shall  sink  in 

prayer  each  nation ! — 
Pause  not,  shrink  not  in  your  Mission! — Flash  the 

sunlight  of  your  thought. 
Like  the  blaze  of  God's  first  mandate,  that  revealed 


VII. 


what  He  had  wrought  !(^) 


^SLs^ .          Duganne.          ^  ^  .  O&j® 

MISSION  OK  INTKLLECT. 

VIII. 

Speak  to  kings,  as  Paul  to  Festus — till  they  own  the 

truths  ye  teach  them — 

Speak  to  men  like  Christ  to  Lazarus — till  the  breath 

of  life  shall  reach  them — 

Though  ye  lie  in  chains,  like  Peter — angel  hands  shall  ' 

ope  your  prison : 

Though  ye  die,  as  died  the  Prophets — trust  ye  still  your 

prayers  have  risen ! 
Shrink  not — pause  not  in  your  Mission  ! — ye  must  lead 

the  Future's  van : 
For  Jehovah  gives  to  Intellect  the  stewardship  of 

Man! 

ASPIRATION. 

I  AM  looking  from  my  heart  through  cloudy  skies  and 
stormy  years, 

While  the  dim,  uncertain  Present  vails  me  in  a  mist 
of  tears ; 

And  a  low,  mysterious  murmuring  my  sinking  spirit 
hears : 


Like  the  sad  and  solemn  shivering  of  the  trembling 
forest  leaves, 

When  the  muttered  breath  of  thunder  through  the 

rocking  darkness  heaves. 
Ere  the  bolt  of  fiery  levin  'mid  the  crashing  heaven 
cleaves. 


34 


Poetical  Works. 


MISSION  OK  INTKLI-KCT. 


And  a  iniglity  Thought,  like  sultriness,  o'ersways  me, 
as  a  wing — 

Even  as  blended  wings  of  cherubim,  while  fearfully  I 
sing. 

And  most  fearfully,  like  Samuel,  to  the  altar-foot  I 
cling  ;— 

To  the  foot  of  that  great  Darkness,  lifting  high  its  awful 
head — 

While  the  clouds,  in  rolling  billows,  over  its  bosom 
widely  spread — 

Like  the  darkness  round  the  Stygian  shores — the  dark- 
ness of  the  Dead. 

At  the  foot  of  this  dread  Altar  kneel  I  now  with  clasped 
hands, 

And  my  bosom  smites  the  Darkness,  as  a  billow  beats 
the  sands — 

When  the  Ocean,  all  behind  it,  drives  it  madly  on  the 
strands. 

Thus  the  Ocean  of  my  longings  forces  on  my  surging 
heart — 

Till  the  Darkness  seems  to  crumble — crumble  heavily 
apart ; 

And  beyond  it — as  from  Chaos — golden  paradises  start. 


35 


Duganne. 


MISSION  OF  INTELLECT. 


Lo  !  the  mountain  Thought  falls  from  me — falls  from 

off  my  heaving  soul — 
As  if  Earth  from  Titan  Atlas  should  with  silent  motion 


And,  behold!  it  belts  the  heavens,  in  a  wondrous, 


As  if  all  the  hurrying  thunderbolts,  in  viewless  fingers 
held, 

Whilst  they  burned  upon  the  azure,  were  to  mortal 

language  quelled — 
Straightway  now  all  human  Error  from  my  spirit  is 

dispelled ! 

And  I  know  that  towering  Altar  is  Jehovah's  Throne 
on  Earth — 

And  the  billowy  clouds  around  it  hide  the  Future's 

mighty  birth — 
This  I  read  amid  the  flaming  Thought,  that  spans  the 

heavens'  girth. 

Lo!  that  Thought  is  Man's  Redemption — Man's  en- 
franchisement from  wrong — 

When  the  Earth  to  all  God's  children  shall  in  brother- 
hood belong — 

And  the  Weak  shall  rest  securely  on  the  bosom  of  the 
Strong. 


roll  : 


flaming  scroll, — 


.^^^w.        Poetical  Works.  <^ 

MISSION  OK  INTKI-I.KCT. 


w  ploughshare's  peaceful  furrows  shall  efface 

1 


w  W 

the  battle  scar,  M 


And  the  golden  sheaves  of  Harvest  in  battalia  shine  i 
afar, 

And  the  children  gather  roses  to  enchain  the  hand  of 
War. 


Like  an  endless  fire,  consumeless,  burns  that  Thought 

before  mine  eyes : 
And  my  soul's  electric  flashes  would  eternally  uprise — 
Rise  and  mingle  with  the  Prophecy  that  belts  the 

Future's  skies ! 


^  Duganne. 


NOTES 

TO 

®I)e  iHission  of  intellect. 


(1)  Lihe  the  Stciss—like  Arnold  Winkelried — 
Arnold  Winkelried,  of  Unterwalden,  one  of 

the  Swiss  Cantons,  fell  at  the  battle  of  Sempach, 
A.  D.  1386.  Throwing  himself  amid  the  Aus- 
trian ranks,  he  cried  to  his  countrymen — "I 
make  a  path  for  libertj."  They  followed,  and 
won  the  day. 

(2)  Like  old  Decius — white-robed  warrior — 

priest  and  victim — 

Decius  was  a  Roman  consul,  who,  in  a  bat- 
tle with  the  Sabines,  (558  b.  c.)  arrayed  him- 
self in  priestly  vestments,  and,  devoting  his  life 
to  the  gods  Manes,  rode  unarmed  into  the  ranks 
of  the  enemy,  invoking  victory  to  his  troops  as 
a  recompense  for  the  sacrifice. 

(3)  To  the  Unknown  God— 

"  For  as  I  passed  by,  and  beheld  your  devo- 
tions, I  found  an  altar,  with  this  inscription,  TO 
THE  UNKNOWN  GOD.  Whom,  therefore,  ye 
ignorantly  worship,  him  declare  I  unto  you." 
Paul  to  the  Atheniant. 


(4)  Muezzin-like,  give  warning — 

No  church-bells  are  used  in  Mohammedan 
countries,  but,  instead,  the  muezzin,  or  priest, 
ascends  to  the  minarets  of  a  mosque,  and,  in  a 
loud  voice,  cries  out,  "Allah  Acbar,"  which 
means  "God  is  great;"  on  hearing  which  every 
good  Mussulman  immediately  prostrates  him- 
self, turning  his  face  toward  Mecca,  the  city  of 
the  Prophet. 

(5)  Point  where  truth  hath  reared  her  Kaaba — 
The  kaaba,  a  holy  stone  of  Mecca,  is  an  object 
of  great  devotion  to  all  Mohammedan  pilgrims, 
as  having  been  pressed  by  their  prophet's  feet 
just  before  he  was  taken  up  into  heaven. 

(6)  God's  first  mandate— that  revealed  what  He 
had  wrought. 

"  And  God  said.  Let  there  be  light ;  and  there 
was  light."— ffencsi*. 


Poetical  Works. 


9=> 


MDCCCXLVill, 


J\)i  jjem  of  'AS  gf)5  jlie  ^^H^f^  of  'AO, 

THESE 

LYRICS  OF  LIBERTY: 
Kn  iWemortant. 


Poctical  Works. 


6^ 


MDCCCXLVIII 


'^m  of  tjp  JPFOjik 


INVOCATION. 


EN  of  noble  souls,  whose  vision 

Pierceth  through  the  Future's  cur- 
tain ; 


An  Ancient  Ye  who  scom  the  world's  derision — 

Harper, mourn- 


fully beholding 
the  servile  Es- 
tate of  Europe, 
at  the  Close  of 
the  Year  1847, 
awaketh  to  the 
Sound  of  Freedom's  Trum- 
pet at  the  Opening  of  1848— 
The  Year  of  the  People. 
He  seizeth  his  forgotten 
Harp,  and  summonetb  the 
Nations. 


Ye  whose  trust  hath  still  been  cer- 
tain : 

Look  aloft !  your  hope  is  sunward — 
Look  abroad !  your  course  is  on- 
ward! 


Lo  !  now  comes  your  toil's  fruition — 
Labors  now  the  pregnant  crisis : 
Man  renews  his  faith  to  Isis — (^) 
Chronos(^)  fills  his  glorious  mission : 

Look  aloft !  your  hope  is  sunward — 
Look  abroad  !  your  course  is  onward ! 

41  .M 


Duganne. 

MDCCCXLVIII. 

In  the  long-enslaved  nations 

Throbs  with  joy  each  freeman's  bosom ; 
Ye  who  waited  long  with  patience, 
Now  behold  your  hopes  in  blossom : 
Look  aloft !  your  hope  is  sunward — 
Look  abroad !  your  course  is  onward ! 


In  each  old  Sclavonic  forest — 
In  each  fair  Italian  valley — 
Bide  the  time  when  ye  may  rally, 
Yo  who  long  have  suffered  sorest : 

Look  aloft !  your  hope  is  sunward — 
Look  abroad  !  your  course  is  onward  I 


Polander  and  iron  German — 

Serfs  of  Austria  and  Hungaria — 
Slaves  of  knout,  ukase,  or  firman — 
Trodden  Jew,  and  outcast  Pariah — 
Look  aloft !  your  hope  is  sunward — 
Look  abroad !  your  course  is  onward  ! 


Patriots  !  scattered  o'er  creation  ! 

Souls  of  thought,  and  hearts  of  daring ! — 
Be  ye  now  no  more  despairing : 
Soon  shall  end  your  long  probation. 

Look  aloft !  your  hope  is  sunward — 
Look  abroad  !  your  course  is  onward ! 


Poetical  Works. 


YKAR  OK  THK  I'KOI'LK, 


I. 


THANKSGIVING  HYMN  FOR  1848. 


The  Ancient  Harper 
breakoth  fortli  iu  u  Kong; 
of  Thanksgiving  at  the 
Advent  of  the  People's 
Triumph. 


Thank  God,  that  through  the  world 
The  electric  thoughts  of  glorious  souls 
are  gleaming ! 


Thank  God,  that  now,  through  Christendom  unfurled. 
The  banners  of  Man's  Cause  are  proudly  streaming ! 

Thank  God,  that  Earth  hath  still 
Some  lofty  sons,  Avhose  deeds  shall  gild  her  story — 
With  flame  from  Heaven  those  noble  souls  shall  fill, 
Like  old  Prometheus,  this  world  with  glory. 

Old  Rome  hath  now,  thank  God ! 
The  keys  that  shall  unlock  her  gates  of  heaven — (^) 
And  necks  shall  rise  that  have  to  earth  been  trod. 
And  chains  that  yoked  the  soul  shall  now  be  riven ! 

And  Man — thank  God  for  that — 
O'er  all  the  earth  asserts  his  natal  franchise. 
And  boldly  now,  at  King  and  Autocrat, 

His  words  of  fiery  hope  the  vassal  launches  ! 

Thank  God  that  Right  is  Might— 
That  souls  are  deathless  and  that  wrong  is  mortal — 
That  Darkness  is  the  handmaid  of  the  Light, 
And  Death  is  but  of  Life  the  clouded  portal ! 

43 


Duganne. 



MDCCCXLVUI. 
II. 

THE  GIANT. 

The  Ancient  Bard  de-  THERE  WaS  Q.  WCarj  Glailt 
scribeth  the  Rule  of  King- 

'V'Tu      '1"     Stretched  by  the  solemn  Rhine  ! 

Type  of  a  Vulture  brood- 

Giant!''*'^  *  Blumbenng  ^^^^  j^- g  j^^gg  jinibs,  all  slack  and  pliant, 

Heavily  did  recline ; 

And  his  hands  made  no  sign  : 
Though  in  the  air  above,  with  cloudy  wing, 

Brooded  a  horrible  Thing — 
A  Vulture,  with  the  face  of  crowned  King ! 

And  there  were  serpents,  bred  from  the  miasma 
Of  that  crown'd  Vulture's  breath. 

Gleaming,  as  on  they  crept,  like  strange  phantasma : 
These  wound,  in  chains  beneath, 
While,  wrapp'd  in  sleep  like  death, 

The  Giant,  which  was  France,  nor  moved  nor  stirred, 
Till,  with  a  rush  unheard. 

Swooped  down,  like  Night,  the  shadowy,  unclean  bird. 

And  the  bright  serpents,  round  the  Giant  wreathing, 

Wove  their  encumbering  chain ; 
While  the  blood-sucking  Vulture,  softly  breathing 

Into  his  heart  and  brain, 

Deadened  the  sense  of  pain : 
Back  and  forth  glided  still  those  serpent  bands. 

Like  Delilah's  soft  hands 
Binding  shorn  Samson,  at  his  foes'  commands  !  ^ 

44 

S'S-e^  .   


Poetical  Works. 




YKAR  OK  TllK  PKOl'I.IC 


But,  God  in  Heaven  be  praised  !  the  h1  umbering  Giant 

Out  of  his  trance  awakes ! 
Flings  his  broad  arms  aloft,  and  shouts  defiant; 

Like  as 't  were  flax,  he  breaks 
The  chain  of  wreathing  snakes ; 
And,  in  the  exuberance  of  his  strength,  teai-s  down 

The  royal  Vulture's  crown  ! 
And  the  crushed  serpents  vanish  at  his  frown  ! 


III. 


REGENERATION, 


The  Old  Harper  exult-   I  HEARD  a  Volce  of  millions  siuglug ! 

eth  in  the  Triumph  of  the  ^  . 

French  People.  I  saw  a  lorcst  01  waviug  arms, 

And  a  world  of  flashing  eyes ! 
I  heard  the  sounding  psalms 

Of  freemen — glorious  freemen — loudly  ringing 
To  the  skies. 


And  I  said  within  my  heart,  0  this  is  France  ! 

It  is  France ! 
From  their  slavery  her  millions  now  advance ! 
She  hath  spoken. 
And  her  sceptres  now  are  broken. 
And  her  fetters  lie  in  rust. 
And  her  diadems  are  trampled  in  the  dust ! 


y  +5 


Duganne. 


MDCCCXLVni. 


Who  hath  done  it  ? 


What  hath  won  it? 

Wliat  hath  won  this  hoon  of  freedom  for  our  France  ? 
Tell  me,  citizen  and  neighbor, 
Was  it  cannon — was  it  sabre  ? 

Did  the  guillotine  achieve  it — or  the  lance  ? 

Not  the  cannon  nor  the  sahre — 

Not  the  guillotine  nor  lance : 
It  was  LABOR — glorious  LAB  OH — 

That  emancipated  France  ! 

Through  the  pilgrimage  of  years, 
Ever  weeping  bloody  tears — 
'  By  their  mastei-s'  fetters  bound. 
With  their  eyes  upon  the  ground ; 
While  their  voices  dared  not  utter 
Wliat  their  woful  hearts  would  mutter, — 
Thus,  in  despotism's  trance. 
Were  the  Workingmen  of  France ! 

But  those  hearts  were  bended  bows. 
And  their  agonizing  throes 
Were  as  arrows  to  be  hurl'd  among  their  foes ! 
And  behold ! — 
Like  the  JTazarite  of  old,(^) 
In  the  glory  of  their  liberty  the  Workingmen  arose. 


Poetical  Works. 

Ye  saw  when  Orleans  fell ! 
When  the  crown  and  throne  were  shivered : 

Tell  me,  neighbors,  was  it  well 
That  our  France  was  thus  delivered  ? 
If  ye  sanctify  the  deed, 
Give  ye  then  its  glorious  meed — 

Not  to  cannon — not  to  sabre — 

Not  to  guillotine  nor  lance  ! 
But  to  LABOR — glorious  LABOR — 

That  emancipated  France  ! 

No  Rollin  nor  Cavaignac — 

And  no  Lamartine  we  trust — 
No  Napoleon  shall  drag  us  back 

To  Empire's  bloody  dust. 
Lo  !  ye  traffickers  in  blood. 

And  ye  worshippers  of  gold, 
We,  whose  necks  ye  long  have  trod — 
We — ^the  People — bid  ye  hold ! 
For  no  longer  will  the  Workingmen  be  sold ! 
But  their  rights  they  will  maintain 
With  the  heart  and  with  the  brain. 
Until  Liberty — Equality — ^Fraternity — they  gain 
Crown  and  chain 
Alike  are  vain — 
Power  and  gold 
Shall  be  controlled. 
And  no  longer  shall  the  Workingmen  be  sold ! 
47 


Duganne. 

MDCCCXLVIII. 

For  the  iron  hath  been  driven 

To  the  very  soul  of  Man ! 
'^ow  he  rises,  and — by  Heaven ! 

Let  them  stay  his  course  who  can. 
Lo  !  his  manacles  are  riven, 

And  in  Freedom's  battle  van, 
With  his  hand  upon  his  charter. 

And  his  foot  upon  the  sod. 
He  will  stand — or  die,  a  martyr, 
For  his  children  and  his  God ! 

IV. 

FRANCE  TO  IRELAND. (5) 

The  Bard  portrayeth   Jreland  !  Irclaud !  wakc— advaucG ! 

France  as  cailiDg  unto 

Erin  to  cast  off  the  Saxon      -r-rr  it  n  -m 

Yoke.  we  are  calling  you  from  France : 

We  are  free,  0  suffering  sister ! 
And  we  cry  aloud  to  thee. 
In  the  name  of  God  !  be  free  ! 
Wake  !  arise  ! — ^the  bloody  chalice 
Ye  have  drained  in  silent  wo. 
Once  again  shall  overflow  : 
Ye  shall  fill  that  cup  afresh. 
With  the  Eucharist  of  Freedom, 
Holy  Freedom's  blood  and  flesh ! 

Lo  !  we  once  were  slaves  in  Gaul — 
Slaves  and  dupes  to  royal  thrall : 
Herod-like,  the  kings  of  earth 
Sought  to  crush  our  Freedom's  birth — 
48 


Poetical  Works. 


yi;au  ok  Till.;  i> 


8oiight  to  slay  the  soul  of  Freedom, 
Born,  like  CliriHt,  among  the  poor ! 
Ay  !  they  crucified  our  Fivodoni — 
Thus  to  make  their  triumph  sure. 
But,  like  Christ  from  out  his  tomb — 
From  a  new  sepulchral  womb, 
"With  a  quaking,  rending  spasm. 
Leapt  our  Freedom  from  its  plasm — 
*!N'eath  the  blow  of  rugged  labor 
Leapt,  like  Pallas,  armed  Right  !(^) 
From  the  dust,  where,  long  quiescent. 
Human  hearts  lay  dead,  petrescent. 
Rise  they  now,  with  fire  renascent — 
Rise,  with  Phoenix  glories  bright ! 
Each  true  soul  is  God's  own  ^on — 
And  the  world  a  grand  Pantheon, 
Where  we  battle  with  the  Titans,  (^) 
And  o'ercome  their  giant  might; 
With  the  diadem'd  marauders, 
With  the  purple-robed  defrauders — 
With  the  tyrants  who  would  impiously 
Escale  the  throne  of  Light ! 
Men  of  Ireland !  Rise  !  be  free  ! 
Hurl  your  bosoms  like  a  sea — 
Like  a  tempest-freighted  sea — 
Over  sceptre,  crown,  and  chain; 
As  your  stormy  Irish  Ocean 
Rolls  its  thunders  to  the  Main. 


c5 


49 


Duganne. 

MDCCCXLVIII. 

Ireland  !  Ireland  !  wake — arise  ! 
Make  a  whirlwind  of  your  sighs — 
That  shall  blast  your  chains  to  weapons, 
In  the  furnace  of  3'our  wrath  : 
Let  the  blows  your  tyrants  dealt  you 
Roll  an  earthquake  in  their  path ! 
By  the  blood  of  Drogheda — 
And  by  Wexford's  fatal  fray  !(^) 
By  your  woes,  your  shames,  your  sufferings ! 
By  your  thousand  patriot  offerings  ! 
By  the  rack,  the  axe,  the  scaffold. 
Which  have  oft  your  freedom  baffled  ! 
By  the  martyrdom  of  Emmett, 
And  the  glory  of  Boiroimh  !(®) 
Rise,  and  strike  the  Saxon  from  you — 
Rise  !  and  to  your  blood  be  true  ! 
Wake  !  arise  !  as  France  has  risen, 
From  the  grave-mould  of  her  prison  ! 
Brand  each  Irishman  with  treason 

Who  shall  brook  a  stranger's  thongs: 
Raise  your  emerald  banners  o'er  you ! 
Let  your  wild  harp  crash  before  you  ! — 
K  they  dare  deny  you  Freedom, 

Which,  of  right,  to  man  belongs — 
Rise  ye,  then,  and  grapple  veyigeanee : 
Claim  ye  rack-rent(^)  for  your  wrongs  ! 


50 


Erin,  in  answer  to  the 
Call  of  France,  invoketh 


^  Poetical  Works. 



VKAR  OV  THK  TKorLK.  f\ 

V. 

PRAYER  OF  ERIN. 

With  spirit  burning, 
her  sons  to  free' her.      FoF  action  ycaming, 

The  noble  summons  of  France  we  hear ! 
While  woes  and  curses 
Each  heart  rehearses, 
And  weeps  forever  the  bloody  tear : 
Our  brave  men  dying, 
Our  maidens  sighing. 
Our  orphans  crying,  great  God !  to  Thee  ! 
Wliile  foes  insulting, 
O'er  all  exulting, 
In  shackles  bind  us  who  once  were  free ! 

0  Power  Supernal 
Whose  heart  eternal 
Inclines  from  heaven  when  the  ravens  cry ; 
Whose  arm  protects  us, 
Whose  word  directs  us — 
0  God  of  Justice  !  look  from  on  High  \ 
Behold  a  I^ation 
In  tribulation : 
In  supplication  we  bend  the  knee — 
In  the  name  of  Jesus, 
0  God !  release  us ! 
From  cruel  tyrants,  0  set  us  free  ! 


UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 
LIBRARY 


Duganne. 


MDCCCXLVIII. 


0  Christian  brothers ! 


K  ye  have  mothers — 


If  ye  have  sisters  or  children  dear, 

Should  Famine  blight  them, 
Should  Plague  affright  them — 

Would  ye  not  call  on  the  world  to  hear  ? 
0  would  ye  falter 
At  Freedom's  altar, 

"Wlien  axe  and  halter  your  eyes  might  see — 
Or  cast  behind  you 
The  chains  that  bind  you, 

And  swear,  by  Heaven — that  ye  would  be  free  ? 

Ye  men  of  Ireland, 
Behold  your  sireland  ! 
Arise  !  arise  !  from  your  bloody  dust : 


Let  freemen  mingle — 
Let  Green  and  Orange  in  union  trust ! 
With  hands  upraising. 
With  bosoms  blazing, 
Jehovah  praising  for  Liberty — 
Once  more  in  grandeur. 
Through  death  and  danger, 
Your  glorious  Island  arise  and  free  ! 


]S"o  longer  single, 


5* 


Poetical  Works. 



vr. 

FREEDOM  BAFFLED. 

The  Bard  an^ily  re  WORSE  tluill  Vil'lll  tO  pi'liy  foi'  frCCdom, 
bukoth  the  Cowardice  of 

Erin's  Children.  Wlicn  to  bigots      woul(l  preacli ; 

Worse  than  vain,  with  bold  exhortings, 

Slavish  minds  ye  seek  to  reach. 
Ireland  wants  nor  arms  nor  armor — 

Needs  no  strength  her  rights  to  win ; 
But  her  bitterest  foes  are  traitors, 

And  her  slavery  is  within  ! 

Would  ye  rescue  hapless  Ireland — 

Would  ye  lift  her  drooping  head  ? 
Would  ye  clothe  her  naked  multitudes, 

And  give  her  paupers  bread  ? 
0  waste  not  words  in  sympathy, 

Nor  shed  your  useless  tears. 
But  arouse  her  from  her  slavishness 

Of  twice  two  hundred  years. 

Give  her  not  your  pikes  and  rifles — 

They'll  be  forged  to  galling  bands ; 
For  a  coward  priesthood  rules  her. 

Curbs  her  heart,  and  checks  her  hands. 
Give  her  not  your  golden  harvests. 

Though  for  bread  she  shall  implore — 
If  ye  do,  she'll  kneel  for  ages. 

Like  a  beggar,  at  your  door. 


Duganne. 


WDCCCXLviir. 


But  if  ye  would  rescue  Ireland, 

Give  her  spades,  and  give  her  plows  ! 
Let  the  sweat  of  honest  labor 

Gild  her  happy  farmers'  brows ! 
Let  her  patriots  drain  her  marshes — 

Let  them  hurl  their  iron  blows 
On  the  fastnesses  of  fevers — 

Worse  than  even  British  foes. 

K  ye'd  raise  in  Ireland  armies, 

Make  them  warriors  of  Toil ! 
Let  their  weapons  strike  her  meadows. 

Let  them  cleanse  her  teeming  soil. 
Give  her  work,  ye  sympathizers, 

And  for  work  bestow  reward  ! 
Work  is  better  far  than  charity. 

And  stronger  than  the  sword ! 

Pauper  minds  are  worse  than  traitors. 

Bigots  shrink  from  Freedom's  goal : 
Would  ye  break  the  body's  fetters. 

First  must  ye  unlock  the  soul. 
Ireland  wants  nor  arms  nor  armor, 

Lacks  no  strength  her  rights  to  win ; 
But  her  bitterest  foe  is  Priestcraft — 

Ignorance  her  deadliest  sin. 


54 


Poetical  Works. 

&^<^^    -^^v?® 

YKAll  OK  THK  IMCOIM.K. 

VII. 

STRUGGLE  OF  THE  PEOPLE. 

Europe  was  Bondage!  where,  in  stupor  sunken, 
The  Auoiout  Harper  ro-    Livborcd  sad  Israel,  by  her  Pharaohs 

lioarseth  tlio  Struggle  of 

the  Ntttious.  crushed ! 

Shackled  her  limbs,  her  spirit  weak  and  shrunken, 
Dumb  was  her  voice — her  harp,  despairing,  hushed. 

Europe  was  Exodus  !    From  sliame  emerging, 
Lo  !  how  the  Slave  became  at  once  the  Man  ! 

While  o'er  his  tyrants  Freedom's  ocean,  surging 
High  as  man's  hopes,  in  billowy  glory  ran. 

Europe  is  Sinai  !  and  her  dread  confusions 
Are  but  the  workings  of  the  Eternal's  might ! 

Lo  !  from  the  Burning  Bush  of  Revolutions 
Cometh  the  Decalogue  of  Human  Right ! 

VIII. 

AVATAR  AND  FLIGHT. 

Out  of  deep  sleep  where  visions  moved  before  me, 

The  Bard  likeneth  the 
Birth  of  Freedom  to  the    RisCS  Uiy  'wlldcrcd  SOUl  .* 
Avatar  of  Our  Lord. 

Starless  and  dark  the  heavens  are  frowning  o'er  me  ; 

And  underneath  me  roll 
The  billows  of  an  Unknown  Sea,  whose  surge 

Is  as  an  endless  dirge. 
Lo  !  in  my  dreams  I  saw  the  Arisen  Man — 
The  unbound  Prometheus,  grand  with  conquered  pain, 

55 

Q^^e^ir^    -^^© 


^  Duganne, 


MDCCCXLVIII. 


Trampling  his  shattered  chain  ! 
Then,  with  a  mighty  joy  that  overran 
The  utterance  of  my  heart,  I  clasp'd  my  lyre, 
And  sang  aloud  with  prophet-ire, 
Sang  with  exuberant  voice — 
Earth!  rejoice!  rejoice!" 

I  saw  young  Freedom  born — a  Saviour-child — 
And  sages  came  from  far, 
Led  by  the  radiant  star 
That  o'er  his  manger  gloriously  smiled ; 
And  I  stood  with  shepherds  who  watched  by  night, 
Till  mine  eyes  were  bathed  with  a  wondrous  light, 

Till  I  heard  the  song  of  an  angel  throng, 
"With  manifold  love  and  with  peace  o'erfraught, 
Swaying  my  listening  thought. 

But  Herod  the  murderer  heard — 

Herod  the  Tyrant  of  i^ations : 
There  swept  by  his  palace  a  mystical  word, 
And  the  heart  of  the  people  with  wonderment  stirred. 
In  the  dust  of  its  desolations. 
A  star  in  the  midnight  sky — 

A  gleam  of  the  Orient  morn : 
Behold !  that  word  swept  flashing  by — 

The  ISTame  of  the  Child  new-born ! 
Over  the  broad  world  flashing  high — 
The  Kame  of  the  Child  new-born  ! 
56 

_    — =^ 


Poetical  Works. 


YKAK  OK  TIIK  l*K()l'l,K. 


The  Sword,  O  nations  of  the  eailli!  ye  aaw 

Your  trenihUng  tynints  draw. 
The  Hand,  O  nations !  yc  hoheld,  that  slew 
The  Innocent  and  True  ! 
But  Freedom  lives  ! 
The  Almiglity  hath  the  Child  outled— 
Egypt  her  shelter  gives  ! 
With  strength  and  wisdom  shall  his  youth  be  fed, 
Till  in  man's  stature,  'mid  his  fellow-men, 
Freedom — the  Saviour ! — shall  return  again  ! 

The  Lord  God  mightily  reigneth — 
And  in  the  breath  of  his  nostrils  thrones  dissolve, 
Like  glittering  vapor,  and  no  trace  remaineth  ! 
Light  out  of  darkness  shall  His  word  evolve — 
Order  from  chaos — and  from  the  womb  of  might 

The  Eternal  Soul  of  Right ! 


IX. 
HUNGARY. 

Behold  !  when  first  before  my  vision  whirled 

The  Ancient  Bard  ad- 

dresseth  Kossuth,  prophe-  Tlic  exultinsT  oaffeautrv  of  uations  freed : 

sying  of  the  People.  o  x    o  J 

"When,  from  their  crumbling  thrones  in  terror  hurled, 
Monarchs,  with  white  lips,  read  the  People's  creed ; 
While  rose  that  People,  in  their  blood  and  sweat. 

Moved  b}^  the  might  of  Freedom's  new  revealing ; 
And  thou,  Kossuth,  amid  ^thy  people  set — 

High  on  Hungaria's  glorious  Gilboa  kneeling — 

57 

   ^ 


Wr^^   Duganne. 


A 


^■-^  MDCCCXLVIII. 

Lifted  thine  arms  in  agony  to  heaven  ;  & 
Then — by  the  breath  of  Hope  within  nie,  driven — 
Behold  !  I  named  thee  Moses  of  the  Workl ! 

Wliat,  though  ALONE 
Thou  battledst  for  the  common  Rights  of  Man  ! 
What,  though  no  kindred  hand  uphekl  thine  own — 
iN'o  nation  followed  in  Hungaria's  track, 
When  for  the  world  her  genius  led  the  van : 

Though  slavish  Gaul  held  hack — 
Though  Albion  faltered,  and  tho'  (shame  of  shames !) 
Columbia  tamely  looked  upon  her  fate — 
Yet,  by  the  memory  of  our  fathers'  names, 
Kossuth  ! — despair  not  yet ! 

By  German  Steuben  and  De  Kalb  !  despair  not ! 
By  Erin's  slain  Montgomery  !  despair  not ! 
By  Poland's  child,  Pulasld !  still  despair  not ! — 
By  Lafayette !  by  Washington ! — despair  not ! 


Kossuth  !  behold  ! — 
Thy  People  journey  through  the  desert  still — 

Even  through  the  desert  Zin  : 
While  round  them  press  the  Spoilers  as  of  old, — 
But  by  our  Lord  Jehovah's  power  and  will 
The  Promised  Land  they  yet  shall  enter  in. 
^l^      And  though,  like  Moses,  thou  mayst  bless  thine  eyes 
With  but  a  glimpse  of  freedom's  heritage 

^^^^  ■  ^-^^^-^^ 


Poetical  Works 

YK.VK  (»I'  TIIK  riMtl'MC. 

Still  sliall  tho  iXiitions  rise — 
The  cufrancliisod  Nations  ot'ii  future  a<j^e — 
And  bless  their  Moses  who  on  Gilboa's  height 
Prayed  to  the  Lokd  through  Freedom's  darkest  niglit  ! 

X. 
ROME. 

The    Bard    singeth    to     0  ROME  !    I  slllg  tO  thee  ! 
Rome  aa  to  the  central 

Abiding-placo  of  Free-  I  CVJ  alOUd  tO  thee  !  BE  FREE  !  BE  FREE  ! 
dom's  hopes. 

Behold  !  my  heart  rose  up 
Like  a  rous'd  ocean,  when  upon  mine  ear 
Broke  thy  high  summoning  trumpet,  loud  and  clear, 
Calling  dead  Freedom  from  her  shameful  bier  ! — 
O  Rome  !  the  deadly  cup 
Of  all  thy  woes,  which  tj^rants  filled  for  thee. 

And  Holy  Fathers  bless'd  in  Papal  Palace — 
Calling  the  death-bowl  Heaven's  anointed  chalice : 
This  cup  thou  didst  dash  boldly  from  thy  lips — 

Dash'd  it  to  earth  !  Thus  may  God  crush  the  malice 

Which  would  with  shameful  lies  thy  valiant  deed  eclipse ! 


Rome  the  Republic  !    From  thy  Seven  Hills 
Flash' d  the  red  beacon-fires  of  Liberty. 
Lo  !  how  the  blaze,  w^ide-spreading,  flaming,  fills 
The  o'er-arching  Past  with  glory  !    Thou  wert  free  ! 
Rome  of  Rienzi  !  Rome  of  Decius  !  ROME  ! 
The  name — the  IsTame  of  Rome — shall  hallow  thee 
As  Freedom's  Home  !  » 

59 

 ■   


I 

i 


Duganne. 


MDCCCXLVIII. 


0,  my  lieart  never  could  believe  that  men 


Born  in  the  Coliseum's  shadow — nursed 
Amid  the  tombs  of  earth's  tremendous  giants — 
Could  even  sleep  so  long !    Thank  God  !  again 
Ye  awoke,  and  stood  erect,  and  burst 
Your  shackles,  and  hurled  back,  in  proud  defiance, 
The  gauntlet  of  your  faith  at  slavery's  brow ! 
It  were  a  lifetime  worth  to  be  a  Roman  now  ! 

Fear  ye  yon  crown'd  Usurper,  who  hath  flung 

The  cap  of  Liberty  from  Gallia's  brow, 
And  the  fool's  bells  around  her  temples  hung? 

What  though  your  walls  beneath  his  cannon  bow, 
And  his  armed  robbers  march  your  shrines  among, — 

Rome  is  still  free  !    Her  buried  soul  revives  ! 
Her  children,  that  were  dead,  have  now  up-sprung. 

And  Freedom's  eucharist  gives  them  countless  lives. 

Poor  Imbecile  of  France !  Lo  !  he  would  guide 

The  Phoebus-chariot  of  a  nation's  will,(^^) 
And  rein  the  steeds  of  Freedom  !    In  his  pride 
He  would  o'erleap  his  nature,  and  deride 

The  elements  that  raised  him,  and  that  still 
Are  surging  round  him  in  an  angry  tide  ! 

He  cresting  them,  as  floats  some  glittering  toy 
Upon  the  bosom  of  an  ocean  wide ! 

Laugh,  0  my  soul !    This  proud,  assumptions  boy 


60 


Poetical  Works. 


YKAK  ()!•'  Til 


Would  with  oui'  i:;()(ldo88  Freedom  didliance  hold, 
Tempting  her  love  with  his  hetraying  gold! 

Laugh,  O  my  soul !  laugh  loud  in  new-born  joy — 
"The  gods  first  madden  whom  they  would  destroy!" 


"With  the  brown  hand  of  Labor,  cast  her  chains 
And  sceptres  in  the  path  of  barricades : 
I  sang  as  I  beheld  her  sons  advance, 


That  bore  the  lightning  of  their  hearts  and  brains ! — 
I  sang  aloud  the  anthem  of  the  free, 

And  on  my  bending  knee 
Prayed  for  the  glorious  cause  of  Liberty ! 

But  France  hath  stooped  to  shame, 
Selling  her  birthright  for  a  tyrant's  name. 
And  Rome  must  now  do  battle  for  the  world — 

Rome,  the  great  Heart  of  Nations,  by  whose  throes 
The  tide  of  Freedom's  life-blood  must  be  hurled 
Through  Europe's  arteried  corpse,  until  it  glows 
With  life  to  feel  and  to  avenge  its  woes ! 

Once,  with  the  wondering  patriots  of  all  earth — 
Hailing  your  Freedom's  birth — 
Ye  bless' d  the  Pope  of  Rome  ! 
Ye  bless'd  him,  that,  with  vision  free  and  earnest. 


He  had  looked  forward  to  the  coming  light ; 


I  sang  in  joy  when  France, 


Grasping  their  unstained  blades, 


6i 


 °"8-ne.  

^  MDCCCXLVIII.  ^ 

Ye  hailed  him  as  the  holiest  and  sternest  ' 
Of  all  man's  champions  battling  for  the  Right — 
Battling  against  old  Europe's  kingly  might. 

But  soon  ye  tore  from  oft'  his  brow  its  screening, 
And  saw  the  monarch  in  your  worship'd  Pope  ! 

His  human  words  ye  found  with  rot/al  meaning — 
Truth  to  the  ear  but  falsehood  to  the  hope  ! 

Then,  with  the  strength  that  had  been  crush'd  so  long, 
Ye  rose  and  smote  your  wrong ! 

Men  of  old  Rome  !  still  be  your  souls  undaunted  ! 

Still  to  the  world  fling  out  your  proud  example  ! 
Lo !  the  eternal  seed  which  ye  have  planted, 

Banyan-like  shall  arise,  and  top  the  skies, 
And  in  its  awful  pride,  shall  arch  wdth  branches  wide, 

The  desert  earth — that  kings  now  madly  trample. 


XI. 

THE  TRANCE. 

Jol^^^  I  SLEEP  on  the  bosom  of  Night, 

Seer  of  new  Wars,  and  i        •  i  i 

speakethsoothly  of  Things  But  mautle  my  couch  with  her  stars! 

to  come. 

For,  blazing  in  red,  like  a  flame  overhead. 
Still  swingeth  the  wild  planet  Mars  ! 

I  hear  an  awakening  sound. 
That  sweeps  through  the  vasty  profound ; 
I  see  a  dread  Angel — a  glorious  Angel — 
With  beauty  enrobed  and  with  righteousness  crowned ! 


62 


Poetical  Works. 


YK.VIt  OK  TJIK  I'KOlM.i;. 


A  Voice  through  Creation  is  imi-led; 
The  broatli  of  Ki-oiiiM  is  rocking  the  world! 
And  the  spirit  of  God  o'er  the  face  of  the  waters 
Is  brooding  in  wonderful  glory — 
In  dark  and  mysterious  glory  ! 
Arise  ye,  my  sons  !  O  awake  ye,  my  daughters  ! 

Behold  !  on  the  wings  of  the  morning  behold  ! 

IIow  the  Angel  of  Prophecy  flieth  from  Heaven, 
With  power  from  Elohim,  the  Mighty  One,  given, 
The  Future  of  Earth  to  unfold  ! 

There  are  curses  and  sore  tribulations, 
That  crouch  in  the  lap  of  the  Past : 
There  is  blood-guiltiness  on  the  skirts  of  the  nations 
And  shadows  from  heaven  are  cast — 
Yea,  shadows  unearthly  and  vast, — 
Brooding  over  mankind, 
Who  are  blind — who  are  blind — 
Who  have  plucked  out  the  eyes  of  their  mind  I 

It  comes — oh  !  it  comes  !  1  hear  it  again ! 

I  hear  it  afar : 
That  murderous  tread  o'er  the  living  and  dead — 
The  march  of  old  merciless  war ! 
It  comes — oh !  it  comes — 
The  whirlwind  of  men  ! — 
The  Princes  and  Leaders, 
With  banners  and  trumpets  and  drums. 
They  tower  like  old  Lebanon's  cedars, 


MDCCCXLVIII. 

But  bow  to  the  breath  of  the  storm — 
Yea,  bend  to  the  hurricane's  breath! 
They  rush  to  the  Valley  of  Death  I 
Yet  they  swarm ! 
Like  black  battle- vultures  they  swarm  and  they  cluster — 
In  countless  and  terrible  muster, 
In  crimson  and  murderous  lustre. 
They  come — oh  !  they  come  ! 
And  my  spirit  is  dumb — 
The  armies  of  men  !  they  are  swarming  again : 
They  are  swarming  once  more, 
On  sea  and  on  shore — 
The  food  and  the  fuel  of  horrible  war ! 

From  Muscovy — Mother  of  Slaves ! — 
To  their  graves : 
To  their  graves  on  the  banks  of  the  Ehine, — 

The  serfs  of  the  Autocrat  pour  ; 
And  their  blood  shall  new-nurture  the  vine ! 
From  Danube's  red  shore — 
From  Dneiper  and  Don — 
Shall  gather  the  barbaric  hordes ; 

The  Tartar  and  Hun, 
Whose  laws  are  their  swords ; 
From  desert  and  border 
Each  thirsty  marauder 
Shall  haste  to  the  land  of  the  vine, 
To  mingle  his  blood  with  its  wine ! 
64 


Poetical  Works, 


VKAlt  ()!'"  THK  I'KOIM.K. 

From  Britain — from  Britain — 
The  flame  shall  arise 
To  the  pitiless  skies ! 
'Tis  written — 'tis  written — 
'Tis  plain  to  mine  eyes. 
And  her  merchants,  afar  off,  lamenting  and  yearning, 
Shall  witness  the  smoke  of  her  burning! 


Even  so ! 
She  must  taste  of  the  wo  : 
In  hut  and  in  palace,  she'll  drink  of  the  chalice, 
And  pour  out  her  heart  in  libation — 
To  wash  out  her  mighty  transgression. 
For,  lo  ! 

The  blood  of  the  innocent  cries — 
The  blood  of  the  martyrs  whom  Britain  hath  slain. 
Shall  fall  on  her  forehead  in  terrible  rain ! 


And  Gaul  shall  be  drunken  with  blood, 
Drunk  with  the  blood  of  the  North : 
Drunk  with  the  blood  of  the  Islands  and  Main — 
Drunk  with  the  suicide  flood, 
That  once  and  again 
From  her  own  cloven  heart  shall  gush  forth ; 
Ere  the  riddle  of  Samson  lies  open  to  earth — 
And,  from  Koyal  Brutes  slaughtered,  the  Hive  shall 


have  birth. 


Duganne. 


MDCCCXLVIII. 

It  rolls — oh  !  it  rolls — 
The  voice  of  the  thunder  that  striketh  men's  souls : 
It  bends — it  descends — 
The  bolt  that  old  earth  from  her  centre  up-rends — 
'Tis  the  battle's  wild  roar — 'tis  the  bolt  of  red  war — 
The  sea  it  upheave th — it  rocketh  the  shore ; 

It  shaketh  the  zones !  And  monarchs  and  thrones 

Shall  wrestle  with  Freedom — but  conquer  no  more  ! 

XII. 

UNCONQUERED. 

At  the  last,  the  Ancient!  AM  ncar  to  jou,  JO  sutFcring  men, 

Harper  biddeth  the  People 

to  be  of  good  Faith.  Whcrevcr  on  earth  ye  dwell: 

My  heart's  best  tongue  is  mine  iron  pen — 

Mine  iron  thoughts  to  tell ! 
0  would  to  God  that  the  living  fire 

"Wliich  glows  within  that  heart, 
Might  reach  ye,  through  my  flashing  lyre, 

And  all  its  flame  impart ! 


Jehovah  spake,  in  the  olden  time, 

Through  Israel's  glorious  seers. 
Till  the  haughty  spirit  of  royal  crime 

Was  bent  with  craven  fears : 
And  Jehovah  speaketh,  in  this  our  day, 

Wherever,  on  land  or  sea, 
A  brave,  true  heart  shall  sing  or  pray, 

That  its  brethren  may  be  free ! 

66 


Poetical  Works. 





YKAlt  OK  TIIK  I'I'.Ori.K. 


I  tell  you,  brothers  of  every  eliiiie! 
Ye  children  of  every  soil ! 


That  the  Saviors  of  Freedom,  lliroiighout  all  time, 
Have  sprung  from  the  ranks  of  toil ! 

I  charge  ye  all,  who  suiter  and  wait. 
Who  live  by  sweat  of  brow, 

That  ye  keep  good  watch  at  your  city's  gate — 
For  the  Master  cometh  noiv ! 

Ay,  NOW, — when  the  foot  of  royal  might 

Is  trampling  the  olden  world — 
When  the  radiant  banners  of  human  right 

In  darkness  have  been  furled — 
Ay,  NOW, — when  kings  in  their  festal  hall 

Deride  the  human  soul, 
Ye  shall  mark  a  hand,  as  it  scores  the  wall 

With  Freedom's  judgment-scroll 

There  is  never  a  I^ight  for  the  People's  cause 

That  is  not  yet  thick  with  stars. 
And  Freedom's  sleep  is  but  breathing-pause 

For  strength  to  burst  her  bars ! 
For  the  Day  alone  hath  come  the  111 — 

For  the  Day  it  hath  sufficed : 
And  the  gloom  that  closed  o'er  Calvary's  hill, 

Shall  break — with  the  Eisen  Christ  ! 


A 


Duganne. 


NOTES 


®l)c  Scar  of  llie  people 


(1)  Man  rtneirs  his  faith  to  Inis. 
ISIS,  in  the  Egyptian  Mythology,  ia  the  type 
of  Nature. 

(2)  Chronox  fills  his  gloriom  mission. 
Chkonos— the  Greek  God  of  Time. 

(3)  Old  Rome  hath  now,  thank  God  ! 
Hie  heys  that  shall  unlock  her  gates  of  Heaven. 

In  allusion  to  the  accession  of  Pius  IX.  to  the 
pontifical  chair  and  his  subsequent  reforms, 
which  inspired  the  friends  of  liberty  throughout 
the  world  with  hopes  too  soon  to  be  blasted. 

(4)  the  Nazarite  of  old. 

Samson. 

(5)  France  to  Ireland. 
The  Provisional  Government  of  the  French 
Republic  gave  strong  assurances  of  sympathy 
to  the  Irish  Deputations. 

(6)  'Neath  the  hloxc  of  rugged  Labor,  leapt 
Like  Pallas,  armed  Right. 

VOLCAN,  according  to  the  myth,  gave  birth  to 
panoplied  Minerva,  by  cleaving  with  his  sledge 
the  laboring  brow  of  Jove. 


(7)  Where  ice  battle  ioith  the  Titans. 
The  JEons  or  Demi-gods,  assisted  the  Immor- 
tals in  tlieir  great  battle  against  the  Titans. 

(8)  Bg  the  blood  of  Drogheda 
And  by  Wexford's  fatal  fray. 

These  two  places  are  celebrated  as  the  scenes 
of  massacre  and  defeat  of  Irish  Insurgents.  , 
 —  By  the  glory  of  Boiroimh. 

Brian  Boiroimh,  (pronounced  Boru,)  King 
of  Munster  in  1027,  celebrated  for  his  bravery, 
lie  fell  in  the  battle  of  Cluantarf. 

(9)  rack-rent  for  your  wrongs. 

Rack-rent  is  the  technical  term  for  arrears 

claimed  by  landlords  and  middlemen  from  the 
Irish  peasantry. 

(10)  The  Phcebus-chnriot  of  a  nation's  tcill. 

In  allusion  to  the  foolish  daring  through  which 
Phaeton  lost  his  life,  by  attempting  to  control  the 
steeds  of  his  father,  Phoebus. 


"4^ 


Poetical  Works. 


Cljt  ^losptl  of  ITahr. 


 Duganne.  

? 


TO 

(WHETHER  HE  WIELD  THE  PEN  OR  THE  SLEDGE,) 

THESB 
ARE  DELIVERED. 


Poetical  Works. 


PRELUDE. 


ROTIIERS  !  be  ye  whom  ye  may— 
^  Sons  of  men,  I  bid  you — pray  : 
Pray  unceasing — pray  with  might : 
Pray  in  darkness — pray  in  light ! 
Life  hath  still  no  hours  to  spare, — 
Life  is  toil — and  Toil  is  Prayer ! 

Life  is  toil !  and  all  that  lives 
Sacrifice  of  Labor  gives. 
"Water,  fire,  and  air,  and  earth 
Rest  not,  pause  not,  from  their  birth. 
Seed,  within  the  fruitful  ground, 
Lisects,  in  the  seas  profound. 
Bird  and  bee,  and  tree  and  flower, 
Each  hath  Labor  for  its  dower — 
Each  the  mark  of  toil  must  wear, — 
Toil  ye,  then  ! — for  work  is  prayer !  ^ 


Duganne. 

GOSPKL  OF  LABOR. 

Student  !  in  thy  searching  mind 
Lo  !  the  key  of  heaven  tliou'lt  find 
Trim  thy  lamp,  and  burn  thine  oil- 
Through  the  midnight  watches  toil- 
Lay  the  soul's  great  secrets  bare, — 
Labor !  labor !  work  is  prayer ! 


Patriot  !  toiling  for  thy  kind, 
Thou  shalt  break  the  chains  that  bind ! 
Shape  thy  thought  and  mould  thy  plan : 
Toil  for  freedom  !  toil  for  man  ! 
Sagely  think,  and  boldly  dare, — 

4 

Labor !  labor ! — w^ork  is  prayer ! 

Christian  !  round  thee  brothers  stand — 
Pledge  thy  truth,  and  give  thy  hand : 
Eaise  the  downcast — nerve  the  weak! 
Toil  for  good — for  virtue  speak ! 
Let  thy  brethren  be  thy  care, — 
Labor !  labor  !  work  is  prayer ! 

Pray  ye  all ! — the  night  draws  near. 
Toil,  while  yet  the  sky  is  clear ; 
Toil,  while  evil  round  ye  springs ; 
Toil,  w^hile  wrong  its  shadow  flings ; 
Pray  in  hope,  and  ne'er  despair, — 
Toil  ye  !  toil  ye  ! — work  is  prayer  ! 


Poetical  Works. 

OOHl'KL  OK  KAltOU.  ^  ^  M 


,g/g^-V»-s    '-^^^S 


THE  CURSE  AND  THE  BLESSING. 

Oh  !  dark  the  day ! — oli !  desolate  the  hour, 
When,  driven  from  Eden's  desecrated  bower, 
The  stricken  Pair  in  sadness  wandered  forth, 
Alone — amid  the  wilderness  of  earth ! 
Before  them  gloomed  the  Future,  cold  and  dim, — 
Behind  them  flamed  the  swords  of  cherubim. 
Oh !  sad  the  earth  ! — oh  !  desolate  its  guise ! 
Yet  there,  in  sooth,  remained  their  Paradise  ! 
Oh,  bosomed  there,  beneath  the  darksome  mould. 
Were  nestling  Eden's  flowers  of  blue  and  gold : 
There  clustered  Eden's  amber  fruits,  and  there. 
In  wondrous  sunlight,  through  the  branches  fair. 
Dear  Eden's  winged  songs  made  musical  the  air. 

But  viewless  !N'ature's  glories — mute  her  tones — 
To  him  the  lord  of  all  those  boundless  zones  ! 
In  vain  her  beckoning  fingers  wooed  his  glance 
WTiere  gentle  meadows  rolled  their  calm  expanse ; 
Where  sunny  waters  slept  in  silvery  sheen, 
And  shadows  darkened  through  the  woodland  green. 
In  vain  with  luring  love  the  landscape  greets ; 
A  beauteous  maze — a  wilderness  of  sweets ; 
In  vain  with  Eden  joys  the  world  is  fraught, — 
'Tis  Adam's  curse — that  he  beholds  them  not ! 

73 

Q§^e^   ,  


Duganne. 

3=  ^ 


GOSPEL  OF  LABOR. 


Though  king  of  earth,  uiicoiiscious  of  his  throne; 
Though  owning  all,  regardless  of  his  own, — 
He  only  gazes  back — ^with  oft-complaining  moan. 

Oh !  blind  the  sense  that  Hope  has  ne'er  illumed, 
And  dead  the  heart  to  Unbelieving  doomed ! 
The  soft  \vind  wantons  with  the  trembling  trees : 
Despairing  Adam  trembles  as  he  sees ; 
The  streamlet  murmurs  in  the  vale  profound : 
And  fearful  Adam  pauses  at  the  sound. 
The  Future  threat'ning,  while  the  Past  appalls, 
Prone  to  the  earth  his  glance  incurious  falls. 
Not  his  the  faith  that  rules  to  blessed  calm, 
Nor  sorrowing  love  that  lends  the  spirit  balm; 
Not  his  the  holy  joy  with  suiiering  blent, 
Nor  sacred  strength  to  mortal  trials  lent 
Unused  to  earthly  light  his  Eden  eyes, 
Through  tears  alone  must  shine  thetr  Paradise ; 
Through  tears  alone — such  tears  as  mortals  shed 
O'er  cradled  living  and  o'er  coffin'd  dead ; 
Such  tears  as  from  the  bosom's  fountains  flow, 
When  Love's  soft  fingers  press  the  brow  of  wo. 

THE  MYSTERY. 

"  By  sweat  of  brow  shalt  thou  eat  bread  !"    The  Doom 

Went  forth,  and  clothed  the  Future  with  its  gloom : 

The  earth  was  shrouded  unto  Adam's  gaze — 

Each  step  a  pitfall  and  each  path  a  maze. 

74 

   =^ 


Poetical  Works. 


For  him  no  flowers — lor  liini  no  verdant  soil; 
All,  all  were  blasted  by  the  Curse  of  Toil. 
Oh !  blinded  sense  ! — oh  !  doubting  heart  of  Man : 
In  love  conceived,  behold  the  Eternal  plan  ! — 
Foretaste  of  earth,  the  Eden-dream  was  given 
That  man  might  note  the  blameless  life  of  heaven : 
In  Eden's  bower  his  soul  could  haply  learn 
The  heaven  which  he  through  mortal  toil  might  earn. 
Then  from  its  gate  the  Father  led  him  forth, 
To  win  that  heaven  from  the  unknown  earth. 


The  Curse  of  Toil  !    Oh  !  rather  the  ovation 
Of  Man's  true  soul,  Avhose  life  must  be  creation. 
The  Curse  ?    Oh  !  Blessing — in  mysterious  guise ! 
Without  it,  Man  were  cursed  in  Paradise  ! 
Where  Sloth  exposed  him  to  the  Tempter's  art, 
And  Pleasure  enervated  brain  and  heart. 
Man  lived  not,  till  he  crossed  fair  Eden's  portal : 
The  doom  of  death  first  made  his  soul  immortal. 
The  death  of  ease  was  but  the  birth  of  power ; 
He  lost  the  Past — but  gained  the  Future's  dower. 
Behind  him  scarce  had  closed  the  flaming  gate, 
When  Man — the  creature — godlike,  could  create ! 
He  smote  the  rocks,  and  crystal  waves  outstreamed ; 
He  struck  the  plains — the  plains  with  harvest  teemed ; 
He  clove  the  mines — the  mines  their  treasures  gave ; 
He  grasped  the  sea — the  sea  became  his  slave  ! 

75 


Duganne. 

 -^a^ 

GOSPER  OF  LABOR. 

^     Oh  !  when  did  Eden's  golden  sunshine  fade  ? 

Ah  !  when  were  Eden's  bowers  to  dust  decayed  ? 
It  was — when  Man  his  sacred  birthright  gave 
For  pottage,  and  became  his  brother's  slave ! 
It  was — when,  thriftless  of  the  blessing  Toil, 
He  sold  his  title  to  the  teeming  soil ! 
It  was — when,  paralyzed  and  servile  grown. 
He  knelt  and  sued  for  that  which  was  his  own ; 
That  which  was  given  and  ne'er  reclaimed  by  God, — 
The  inalienable  birthright — of  the  sqd ! 


THE  HOPE. 

Freedom  and  Labor  are  forever  one ! 
In  man's  true  life  their  course  is  jointly  run. 
Behold  they  have  descended 
Through  ages  and  through  centuries, 
Since  Moses  'mid  the  sundered  seas 
Out-led  his  ransomed  Israelites, 
And  taught  the  Tribes,  in  one  great  nation  blended, 
The  Decalogue  of  Human  Eights  ! 
Through  weary  pilgrimage  of  Forty  Years — 
The  Cloud  by  day — ^the  Pillared  Fire  by  night — 
Still  beaconing  their  sight, — 
On,  to  the  goal  of  all  their  hopes  and  fears — 
On,  to  their  Eden  bright — the  Promised  Land — 
In  faith  and  wonder  walked  that  chosen  band. 
76 


Yv^^  Poetical  Works. 

hr^^'^    ^^^^ 

l)i  n  QOHrKI,  OK  LAKOU.  H  kJ, 

The  Land — the  Earth  ! — O  this  the  glorious  goal,  ^i/ 

Which  gleamed  upon  each  soul ! 
The  Land  that  God  had  given  them  for  their  own, 

Which  they  through  toil  should  win, — 
This  was  the  mighty  heritage  that  alone 
Led  them  through  desert  Zin. 
Those  Hebrew  multitudes  were  led 
Through  cloven  waters — they  were  fed 
With  heaven's  unstinted  bread  : 
And  not  for  one,  but  all,  the  loving  feast  was  spread : 
Priest — Levite — yea !  or  Publican — 
It  mattered  not — 'Twas  bread  for  man. 


THE  PARABLE. 

That  pilgrimage  is  parable  for  the  world  ! 

Let  tyrants  read  it,  when  from  empire  hurled  ! — 

Let  slaves  behold  the  Sinai  flame  of  God — 

And  tread  the  dust  in  which  they  once  were  trod ! 

That  pilgrimage  is  gospel  for  the  poor : 

Teaching  heaven's  holiest  mandate — to  endure  ; — 

Proving  God's  promise  infinitely  sure. 

That  pilgrimage  is  prophecy  for  all  time ! 

Thus,  through  all  ages,  and  in/  very  clime, 

The  People  have  been  wandC^  ^,  toiling  on ; — 

But,  ah !  not  yet  the  Promised  Land  is  won  ! 

Not  yet — and  not  till  light  hath  conquered  night ; 

Shall  Canaan's  borders  bless  the  People's  sight ! 

77 


Duganne. 


GOSPEL  OF  LABOR. 


TYRANNY  THE  CURSE. 


A  vision  of  the  Past  hath  been  with  me, 

Like  a  weird  Presence.    Over  time's  dark  sea, 

Upon  whose  crumbHng  shores  the  sullen  waves 

Break  o'er  their  countless  landmarks — human  graves ; 

My  disembodied  soul,  upon  the  wings 

Of  Thought,  glides  forth  among  long-perished  things. 

The  awful  spell  of  History  exhumes 

The  tribes  of  men  from  their  centennial  tombs : 

The  mouldered  dust  of  cycles  and  of  ages. 

Garbed  in  the  forms  of  warriors,  priests,  and  sages. 

I  hear  a  solemn  murmur,  like  the  low. 

Sad  cadence  of  a  world's  despairing  wo ; — 

As  of  a  myriad  brains  with  madness  throbbing — 

As  of  a  myriad  hearts  through  fetters  sobbing — 

As  of  a  mjrriad  dead  and  buried  men, 

Striving  to  burst  their  shrouds  and  live  again. 

I     Those  brains  and  hearts — those  dead  men  half-reviving, 
And  with  their  awful  shackles  vainly  striving — 
Striving  through  all  the  past  and  striving  yet, — 
Are  they  who  eat  bread  in  their  forehead's  sweat ; — 
Whose  life  is  labor — whose  reward,  a  crust. 
A    Their  works  immortal,  and  their  memory — dust ! 


S^^IIQAjl^       Poetical  Works. 


UOSI'KL  OK  l.AltOll. 


THE  BOOK  OF  RUINS. 

Lo  !  when  Trutli's  Imnd  reverses  History's  urn, 
And  Ruin's  monumental  loaves  we  turn, — 
Behold,  on  cloven  shrine  and  shivered  column, 
How  iron  Toil  hath  graven  its  legends  solemn  ! 
Behold  the  eloquent  lesson  of  Decay : 
If  ye  preserve  not  man,  man's  work  will  pass  away ! 

How  the  cold  ruins  mock  us  as  we  tread, 
With  tremhling  steps,  each  city  of  the  dead — 
How  in  their  marble  scorn  do  they  deride, 
The  poor,  short-sighted  compass  of  our  pride ; 
That  pride  which  rears  the  temple  and  the  shaft, 
As  glorious  tokens  of  man's  handicraft ; 
And  then,  in  suicide  madness,  sacrifices 
The  life  of  man,  which  all  earth's  life  comprises. 

Lo !  where  the  wise  Chaldean's,  chariot  wide 
Rolled  o'er  Euphrates'  bridged  and  conquered  tide; 
Lo !  Babylon,  where,  on  the  Assyrian's  soul. 
Flashed  the  red  language  of  his  judgment-scroll, — 
Where  are  they  now ! 

Behold  yon  rolling  cloud 
Of  simoom  sand — it  is  Assyria's  shroud. 
Behold  yon  smoke  from  Kurdish  wigwams  rise — 
There  the  Chaldean's  gaze  explored  the  skies  ! — 
Where  deserts  stretch  and  wild  marauders  w^ander. 
Ye  may  behold  Time's  giant  wrecks — and  ponder ! 

79 

y        ^  .   


Duganne. 


GOSPKL  OK  LABOR. 


Fearfully  do  we  tread 
The  Alpine  masonry  of  Pyramids ; 
And  shudderingly  our  feet  are  led 


Thro'  Eg3^t's  populous  tombs — the  echoless  Catacombs, 


Slumber  a  nation's  dead  ! — 
"With  awe  we  mark  the  pillars  overthrown 
Of  what  was  once  the  Athenian's  Parthenon — 
With  fear  we  scan  the  crumbling  stone 
Of  Rome's  dread  Coliseum :  her  pride — her  mausoleum ! 
We  dream  not  that  those  wrecks  of  old 
A  pregnant  lesson  may  unfold  : 
Our  blinded  thoughts  have  never  spanned 
What  Ruin's  damp  and  mildewed  hand 
Hath  writ  upon  each  mouldering  wall : — 
A  lesson  like  the  scroll  in  doomed  Belshazzar's  hall ! 


Ye  piles !  whose  very  ruin  overwhelms 

Our  senses  with  your  vastness — whose  dread  forms, 
Clad  in  the  hoar  of  centuries,  shake  the  storms 

Like  dew-drops  from  your  mailed  breasts  !    Ye  realms 
Of  shadow!  where  Decay  hath  fixed  her  throne, 

And  thence  foredooms  the  Present  with  the  fate 

Of  all  the  Past ! — Ye  tongues  of  Toil !  make  known 
The  dread  significance  of  your  fallen  state  ! — 

Why  live  ye  even  in  dust,  and  why  for  dust  were  ye 


Beneath  whose  rocky  lids 


THE  LESSON. 


4 


create  ? 


80 


Poetical  Works. 


GOSl'KL  OK  LAIJOR. 


Those  ruins  answer  us  !    They  speak  amid 
The  shadowy  years,  like  Samuel  unto  Saul : 
Each  stone  hath  voice — as  if  within  the  wall 
A  multitude  of  prisoned  souls  were  hid ; 

Behold !  they  cry — behold !  these  crumbling  piles 
Ai'e  Tomb-stones  of  the  Living !  of  the  slaves — 
The  PEOPLE  !  by  whose  sweat  and  bloody  toils 
All  were  upreared — walls,  bases,  architraves  ! — 
These  are  the  monuments  of  those  who  have  no  graves ! 

Those  ruins  teach  us  !    Kings  have  writ  their  names 
Upon  the  crushed  entablatures,  and  deemed 
Their  memory  deathless  as  each  column  seemed ; 

Why  is  it  that  nor  king  nor  vassal  claims 
The  homage  which  their  awful  works  inspire  ? — 
Why  is  it  that  we  gaze — ^perchance  admire — 

Yet  reck  not  of  the  long-forgotten  builder. 
Whose  handiwork,  even  in  ruins,  can  bewilder  ? 

It  is  because  the  soul  which  was  in  him 

Who  built,  was  crushed  into  his  work. — It  is 
Because  the  immortal  life,  which  had  been  his. 

Was  trodden  out  by  kings  from  soul  and  limb, — 
That  with  it  they  might  build  these  monuments 
To  their  own  glory. — Human  soul  and  sense 

Were  sacrificed  to  matter — and  stones  became, 
Instead  of  men,  the  altars  of  a  nation's  fame. 


GOSPKL  OF  LAROR. 

Myriads  of  lives  were  moulded  into  brass 

For  Rhodes'  Colossus — millions  crushed  to  clay, 
That  Thebes  might  dazzle  thro'  her  short-lived  day. 

Oh  !  had  these  hecatombs  of  souls — this  mass 
Of  living  Labor— been  together  welded ! — 
Had  one  great  mental  monument  been  builded, — 

Then  had  that  rescued  and  united  Whole 
Templed  Creation — with  a  deathless  Human  Soul. 


THE  FATE  OF  DESPOTISM. 

Egypt,  Assyria,  Greece,  and  Rome !  how  vain 
The  trophies  which  of  all  your  power  remain ! 
How  shadowy  is  the  fame  ye  sought  to  span, 
By  piling  stones  upon  the  soul  of  man ! 
Your  gold  corrodes — your  adamant  is  rotten : 
Art  hath  no  name  when  Nature  is  forgotten  ; 
It  lives  thro'  toil  and  dies  with  toil's  subjection — 
Only  through  Man  redeemed  comes  Art's  true  resur- 
rection ! 

Did  Egypt  build  the  pyramids,  and  baptize 
Their  walls  with  half  a  nation's  sacrifice  ? — 
Behold !  self-immolated,  Egypt  dies  ! 
Was  Greece  thro'  Helot  toil  made  half-divine  ? 
Lo  !  the  iTecropolis  is  her  last  sad  shrine. 
Did  Rome  o'er  trampled  men  aspire  to  power  ? 
Her  life  departed  in  her  triumph  hour. 

82 


■^-5-  


Poetical  Works. 

(i()Hl'i:i-  ()!■•  I,AU(»lt. 

No  work — no  nation — can  exist,  wliich  rears 
Its  sinful  fame  on  servile  toil  and  tears. 
If  Labor's  sinewy  frame  be  shackled  down 
By  law  or  custom — fetter,  scourge,  or  frown, — 
If  it  be  not,  as  God's  great  laws  decree, 
And  ITature  teaches, — if  it  be  not  frbe — 
Then  is  all  toil  a  doom — a  plague — a  curse — 
Than  which  the  human  soul  can  dream  no  worse ! 


THE  GOSPEL  REVEALED. 

Spurn  not,  0  Priest !  these  tidings  unto  Toil ! 
Turn  thee,  0  King !  no  more  thy  race  despoil ! 
Claim  ye,  0  Slaves  !  your  birthright  to  the  soil ! 
For  this  great  Gospel,  through  which  men  are  free, 
Burned  upon  laborers'  lips,  in  Galilee, 
And  flash'd  above  the  Mount  of  Calvary ! 
Toil  was  evangelized  by  the  glorious  thought 
Of  Joseph's  Son,  who  with  his  father  wrought. 
Labor  was  deified,  when,  through  jibes  and  scorn, 
The  ponderous  Cross  was  by  its  Victim  borne : 
The  Gospel  of  the  Poor  was  sent  from  Him 
Whose  ministers  are  the  tireless  cherubim ! 

Behold  we  trace  it  in  the  changing  skies — 
And  from  the  laboring  earth  its  teachings  rise ; 
"We  hear  it  in  the  ocean — and  its  form 
Is  mirrored  in  the  drapery  of  the  storm. 


Duganne. 


GOSPEL  OF  LABOR. 


THE  MYSTERY  OF  CREATION. 


My  soul  hath  sought  this  Gospel,  and  upsoared 
Through  wondrous  space,  until  its  glance  explored 
The  wilderness  of  worlds,  that,  ever  in  motion. 
Gleam  through  the  starry  sky,  like  Phosphor's  light 


Light  rayed  itself  from  out  my  heart,  like  wings, 
Bearing  me  upward ;  and  the  mist,  which  clings 
Around  all  human  knowledge,  was  dispelled : 
The  works  of  God  I  saw — the  Universe  beheld! 

Each  atom — of  that  illimitable  Thought, 
Which  men  call  Universe ;  where  God  hath  wrought 
The  eternal  fabric  of  which  Lives  are  shreds ; 
And  woven  the  mystic  woof  of  which  our  Souls  are 
threads. 

O,  ye  may  measure  stars — ^ye  may  engirth, 
With  your  wise  subtleties,  this  mortal  earth ! — 
Ye  may  compute  the  breadth  of  zones,  and  number 
The  cycles  man  shall  live,  ere  yet  the  earth  he  cumber. 

But  can  ye  bound  Infinitude  ?  or  term 

Eternity  ?  Our  trembling  sense  infirm 

Faints  with  the  awful  idea  of  that  Being, 
Alpha  and  Omega — Omnipotent !  All-seeing ! 


in  ocean ! 


84 


Poetical  Works 


GOSrKI.  OK  I.AUMIl. 


And — throned  upon  Infinity — God  creates : 
Never — tlu'ough  all  Eternity — abates  M 
The  working  of  His  brain ;  and  ceaseless  rolls 
Out  from  His  boundless  heart  the  ocean  of  men's  souls ! 

And,  in  each  soul-created,  God  renews 
The  likeness  of  Himself,  and  re-imbues 
Unsentient  matter  with  the  eternal  sense ; 
Thus  is  He  multiplied  through  Nature's  elements ! 

And  Man,  through  all  his  being,  duplicates 
The  life  which  God  hath  given  him — he  creates 
In  every  thought,  word,  action  of  his  life ! 
All  are  immortal — all  with  o:ood  or  evil  rife. 


Thought  is  the  soul  of  mind — words  intermingle 

A  thousand  souls,  which  once  in  mind  were  single  ; — 

But  DEEDS  are  rivets,  on  the  mighty  chain 

Of  God  with  Man,  or  blows,  which  sunder  it  in  twain. 

Create,  O  Man  !  thy  heaven  !    The  Eternal  Maker 
Invites  thee  still  with  Him  to  be  partaker. 
Fore-measuring  all  things,  all  things  He  ordains — 
And  yet  no  thought,  no  deed,  of  thine  restrains. 

Free  actor,  thou,  0,  Man  !    The  Almighty  Cause 
Projected  Nature,  and  confirmed  Her  laws  : 
Thee,  then,  he  called,  and,  faithful  to  his  Plan, 
Made  Nature's  self  subservient  unto  Man ! 


■fe^ —  - — --^m 


Duganne. 


GOSPEL  OF  LABOR. 


All  elements  are  thine — all  agents  render 
Their  skill  to  thee — to  thee  their  forces  tender. 
The  Earth  thou  tread' st, — thy  curb  is  on  the  Sea : 
The  Air  is  chained — the  Fire  is  yoked — for  thee  ! 

And  thou,  0  Man  ! — free-soul ed,  free-acting  still — 
Thy  Maker  formed  thee — ^yields  thee  to  thy  will : 
O'er-watchful,  then,  He  marks  thy  changing  fate, 
But  leaves  thee,  still,  its  change;^  to  create ! 


86 


Duganne. 


TO 

YOUNG  AMERICA, 

OF 

Cibertjj's  temple, 

THIS  POEM  IS  DEDICATED. 


Poetical  Works. 

r^^xsv^    '^-^^S 


|0T  mine  to  rule  the  poet's  realms  of 
light- 
Not  mine  to  sway  the  golden  tides 
of  song; 

Nor  may  my  fingers  sweep  the  chords 
That  once  their  stormy  music  flung, 
When  Homer  trod  the  Chian  strand ; 
Or  rained  celestial  strains,  when  sung 
Another  sightless  one  in  Albion's  land. 

Oh  !  not  for  me  the  deep,  melodious  words 
That  only  to  those  raptured  bards  belong, 

Who,  blind  to  earth,  saw  heaven  with  saintly  sight, 
And  spake  its  language  with  seraphic  tongue. 
I  may  not  strike  immortal  Dante's  lyre, 
Nor  dare  the  organ-swell  of  Avon's  choir. 
Nor  thrill  with  Harold's  grand  and  gloomy  fire ! 

Yet,  haply  I,  with  reach  of  high  desire. 
May  lift  my  song  to  greet  the  orient  breaks 
Of  freedom — as  old  Memnon  hailed  the  sun  ; 
89 

Q\§^e/^   .  ^^^-s^Qj 


Duganne, 




TRUE  RKPUBLIC. 


And  fling  my  numbers  to  the  aspiring  wind 
That  swells  exultant  with  the  voice  of  man, 
Singing  the  birth-song  of  his  dawning  hopes ; — 
Even  I,  out-looking  from  my  yearning  soul, 
May  chant  with  answering  joy  the  sounding  strain 
That  mounts  impetuous  from  each  patriot's  heart — 
Crj'ing  to  all  the  world,  that  Freedom  lives ! 


Oh !  when  can  Freedom  die  ?  When  summer  suns 

No  longer  glow  upon  man's  lifted  brow. 

Nor  warm  his  grateful  breast ;  when  Ocean's  wave 

No  more  shall  roll  beneath  the  changing  stars, 

But  stagnant  lie — in  desolate  repose ; 

When  winds  forget  their  solemn  symphonies. 

And  thunders  break  not  from  the  gathered  clouds ; 

When  Nature  shall  grow  weary  of  her  life. 

And  thriftless  of  her  stores — and  dull  Decay 

O'erbrood  the  dying  earth, — then,  only  then, 

May  human  souls  despair  of  Liberty ! 


Be  thou,  O  Washington!  the  witness — thou 
Whose  memory,  moonlike,  sits  amid  our  stars. 
And  rules  their  brightness  with  its  steadier  light! 
Whose  spirit  fills  the  temple  of  our  love, 
And  from  its  portals  moves  through  all  the  earth ; 
Whose  life  is  patriotism's  chart — whose  name 
A  Pharos  burns,  o'er  all  the  future's  gloom, 
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Poetical  Works. 

   ^ 

TKI  K  lli:i'lI»MC. 

To  guide  the  world  to  itn  enfranchisement. 
Thee  !  Washington  !  I  now  invoke  !  Thee,  Sire 
And  Savior  of  my  own — my  native  land  ! 

Shall  it  not  come  ? — shall  not  the  hallowed  strife, 
Of  living  Man  with  the  dead  nightmare  shape 
Of  kingly  craft,  soon  shake  the  orient  world  ? 
Shall  not  that  cruel  Moloch,  at  whose  shrine 
(Girt  with  the  tyrants  of  all  time)  the  Earth 
Too  long  hath  bowed,  and  offered  up  her  best 
And  bravest  children  in  sad  hecatombs, — 
Oh  !  shall  not  this  false  idol.  Royalty, 
Be  hurled  forever  from  its  bloody  seat. 
And  Man,  the  Patriot,  own  but  God — the  Sire  ? 

Command  it,  Heaven !  assert  it.  Earth  !  0  pray, 
Ye  suffering  millions  !  that  the  Hope,  so  long 
Nourished  in  secret — wildly  uttered  forth — 
"Wounded  too  oft  in  vainly-daring  strife. 
But  never  wholly  crushed, — may  yet  find  tongue, 
And  arm,  and  soul,  to  gauge  its  awful  strength. 
And  clothe  it  grandly  in  immortal  Deeds ! 


But  thou,  my  country !  land  of  birth  and  love  ! 
Delphos  of  Nations  !  at  whose  gate 
Their  countless  multitudes  await 

The  oracle  that,  thundering  from  above, 
Interprets  Freedom's  fate  ! — 


Duganne. 

TRUE  REPUBLIC. 

Mecca  of  Ages  !  at  whose  shrine 
The  pilgrim  centuries  recline, 
And  look  to  thee — to  thee  ! 
For  that  great  sequel  to  their  nohlest  deeds ; 
For  that  broad  harvest  of  their  scattered  seeds ; 
For  that  dear  bounty  to  their  sorest  needs, — 
The  PROOF  of  liberty ! 


The  old  world  throbs  with  turbulent  unrest ! 
Her  nations  crowd  to  war — 
And,  hark !  with  dreadful  jar 
The  temple-gates  of  Janus  they  unbar ! 
Her  monarchs  mad  with  empire's  quest — 
Her  peoples  sore  opprest — 
Await  the  strife  of  Sultan  and  of  Czar ! 
But,  throned  serenely  in  the  West — 
Where  struggling  Man  beholds  his  freedom-star — 
One  Great  Republic  watches  from  afar ! 


One  Great  Republic  ! — ^great  in  generous  souls  ! 
Supremely  great — that  she  herself  controls, 
Kor  yokes  her  power  to  Havoc's  car, 
To  swell  the  Orient  war ! 
Great  in  her  storied  Past ! 
Whose  mighty  deeds  are  mankind's  Runnymedes — 
Whereby  its  freedom-charter,  broad  and  vast, 
Each  yearning  nation  reads  ! 
92 


Poetical  Works. 


TKUK  KKI'UHLIC. 


Grout  ill  her  Present,  while  her  flag,  unfurled, 
In  neutral  calmness  challenges  the  world  ! — 
But  yet  more  gloriously  great 
That  she  can  cast  her  awful  power 

In  Virtue's  shining  van  : 
That  she  may  all  the  future  dower 
With  blessings  unto  Man  ! 


No  armies  fright  her  vales  ! 

No  battle-din  assails ! 
No  hireling  guards  around  her  portal  stand  ! 
But  when  a  stranger  nation,  starving,  cries 
For  succor  at  her  hand ; 

0  then,  in  marshalled  lines, 

Each  ripening  harvest  shines. 
And  glittering  sheaves  of  golden  corn  arise — 
To  conquer  and  o'er-run  the  foreign  land ! 


One  Great  Republic !  lo !  she  towers  sublime  ! 
The  Hope  of  Nations,  and  the  Goal  of  Time ! 

The  van  of  empire  and  the  throne  of  mind  ! 
Like  that  dread  Angel  w^ho  at  last  shall  stand, 
With  foot  upon  the  sea  and  land, — 
With  power  from  God  to  loose  and  bind 
The  myriads  of  mankind  ! 


I 


Duganne. 


TRUE  REPUBLIC. 

O,  Memories  of  the  Past !  ye  come 
With  trumpet  blast  and  roll  of  drum  : 
Around  me  like  a  bannered  host  ye  are  ! 
I  hear  the  awful  signal  gun 
From  Bunkers*  Height  and  Lexington, 
And  Moultrie's  cannon  thundering  from  afar! 
On  every  hill — through  every  glen — 

From  every  mountain-gorge — 
I  hear  the  tread  of  Minute-Men  ! 
I  hear  their  mingling  battle-cries 
From  Trenton's  glorious  field  arise, 

And  sink  in  Valley  Forge  ; 
But  still  a  clarion  voice  goes  forth 

And  cries,  amid  the  wintry  snows : 
"No  East — no  West — no  South — no  ITorth 
The  Revolution  knows  ! 


O  ye  immortal  and  heroic  souls. 
Whose  vision  ed  glory  rolls 
Triumphant  through  the  wondrous  Past — Ye  men 
Of  Seventy-six  !  who  wielded  sword  and  pen ! 
Ye  twins  of  eloquence,  whose  burning  will 
First  drew  the  electric  flame  of  freedom  forth — 
The  Southern  Henry — Adams  of  the  IS'orth  ! — 
Ye  martyred  twain. 
The  ^Torthern  Warren  and  the  Southern  Hayne  ! 
Oh  !  ye  are  with  us  still ! 

94 


TIUIIC  KKIMJHMC. 


Your  awful  pliantonis  walk  the  viewless  air! 

On  every  wind  ye  glide  ! 
And  cry  aloud — "Not  here — not  there : 
"  On  EVERY  plain  your  fathers  died — 
"  Their  battle-field  the  Union  wide ; — 
"  No  border  claims  a  separate  share  ! 
"  And  palsied  be  the  patricide 
"Who  would  your  heritage  divide  !" 

'    In  History  is  God — no  state  may  rise — 
No  nation  flourishes — no  empire  dies — 
But  hath  its  lesson  writ  by  Him  whose  Will 
Evoked  the  Universe,  and  rules  it  still. 
Not  Israel's  tribes  alone  beheld  His  hand : 
In  Fire  and  Cloud  He  leads  through  every  land ! 
His  Sinai  altar  flames  on  every  shore ; 
And  nations  move  but  when  HE  moves  before ! 

Land  of  my  birth !  0  land  of  Washington  ! 
For  thee,  the  Past  its  mightiest  work  hath  done  ! 
For  thee,  God's  finger  shines  o'er  History's  page — 
For  thee,  in  solemn  words  Age  answers  Age  ! 
Land  of  each  freeman's  heart  and  home  and  love  ! 
High-throned  among  the  nations  !    Oh !  by  thee 

May  God  out-lead  the  world  and  free 
The  expectant  tribes  of  men !    Even  now,  above 
The  surging  waters  of  their  troublous  life. 
Thou  sittest  calm,  unmingling  in  the  strife  ! — 

95 


Duganne. 


TRUE  REPUBLIC. 


Yet,  evermore,  as  heaves  the  billowy  sea 


Of  Europe's  revolutions — evermore, 
As  freedom's  surges  break  from  shore  to  shore, — 
Behold !  each  struggling  patriot,  from  the  crest 
Of  some  huge  wave,  looks,  yearning,  to  the  West, 
And,  dying,  smiles  with  but  a  glimpse  of  thee ! 

0  proud  America  !  exalted  clime ! 
Thy  soil  enriched  with  heroes'  blood : 
And  every  vale,  and  every  crag. 
And  every  field  and  flood 
"With  freedom  beautiful — with  strength  sublime ! 
Whilst,  over  all,  thy  Flag 
Streams  from  its  towering  battle-tent, 
With  heaven's  own  shimmering  ensigns  blent, 
And  marks,  where'er  the  foot  of  freedom  falls, 
One  beacon  more  upon  the  Future's  walls — 
One  other  star  in  Glory's  firmament ! 

The  True  Republic  !  Wouldst  thou,  then,  enroll 
Thy  name — the  noblest  upon  Empire's  scroll  ? 
Be  still  thy  soil  the  refuge  of  th'  oppressed ! — 
Be  still  thy  navies  first  in  danger's  quest ! 
Be  still  thy  succoring  hand  the  first  to  save  ! — 
Be  still  thy  power  the  shelter  of  the  brave  ! 
But,  evermore,  upon  thy  starlit  gate. 
His  words  inscribe  who  taught  thee  to  be  great — 


Poetical  Works. 

  -={ 


TKIIK  KKlM'ltMO 


Wlio — lirst  in  peace,  in  war,  in  patriot  hearts — 
One  peril  saw — the  curse  of  foreign  arts  ! 

Wliere  threats  the  danger  ?    lo  !  in  yonder  school  ; 
Where  bigot  zeal  usurps  a  separate  rule : 
In  yonder  church,  where  Labor's  scanty  mite 
Uprears  cathedral  domes — to  shame  the  light, 
Whilst  ermined  Priestcraft  sweeps  the  marble  floors, 
And — pauper  thousands  grovel  at  the  doors  ! 
In  yonder  crowd,  with  Jesuit  listener  nigh ; 
In  yonder  home — where  lurks  a  foreign  spy ! 
In  crafty  shepherd  and  in  slavish  flocks — 
In  Freedom's  councils,  and — her  ballot-box. 
'Tis  Superstition  !  child  of  deepest  night, — 
We  fear — and  Ignorance  !  its  kindred  blight. 
'Tis  tliese  we  combat — these  we  would  repel 
Back  from  our  Temple,  to  their  native  hell ! 
0,  marvel  not  that,  when  our  sorrowing  eyes 
Behold  the  storm-portending  clouds  arise, 
We  cry  aloud,  with  Monticello's  sire : 
"  0  that  the  Atlantic  were  a  wall  of  fire  !" 

A  Wall  of  Fire  !    'Tis  ours  to  thus  engirth 
This  land  of  refuge  for  the  tribes  of  earth. 
A  Wall  of  Fire — the  tyrant's  powder  to  brave  ! 
A  Sea  of  Flame — to  purify  the  slave ! — 
To  purge  his  ignorance — his  servile  shame — 
And  make  him  worthy  of  a  Patriot's  name ! 

97 


Duganne. 


TRUK  REPUBLIC. 


Who  would  be  free  must  sufter  and  aspire : 
Our  LAWS  should  make  for  us  this  Wall  of  Fire ! 

[N'ations  are  built  of  men — the  mighty  frame 
Of  that  huge  skeleton — a  state — 
Govern  we  it  with  priest  or  potentate, 
Is  evermore  the  same : 
Bones,  sinews,  flesh  and  blood  of  human  kind : 
Moulded  together,  and  made  one, 
By  that  tremendous  charm — the  mind  ! 

And  ruled  (if  ruin  it  would  shun) 
By  one  great  bond  of  Brotherhood, 
Swayed  for  one  object — Human  Good ! 

But  if  the  Mind  be  perished — if  the  Heart 

Of  Brotherhood,  from  which  alone 
All  the  life-blood  of  Liberty  must  start, — 

If  this  be  trampled  down, — 
Then  sinks  a  nation,  from  its  living  state, 
Back  to  the  mouldering  skeleton ! 
Such  has  been — such  will  be  its  fate 
As  Israel's  prophet  looked  upon : 
A  Valley  filled  with  Human  Bones — 
Dry,  senseless,  soulless,  as  the  stones ! 

Only  the  breath  of  true-born  Liberty 

Can  bid  such  crumbling  bones  arise — 
Only  the  voice  which  through  all  nature  cries : 
"Man  is  by  birthright  free  !" 


Poetical  Works. 


Only  the  spirit  which  oniiobles  Toil, 
And  makes  the  Anvil  e(|iuil  to  the  Sword  ; 
And  makes  the  peasant,  while  he  delves  the  soil, 
A  compeer  with  the  lord, — 
So  long  as  mind  shall  dignify  his  brain, 
And  love  for  human  kind  within  his  heart  remain. 

This,  then,  the  True  Republic  ! — where  true  souls 
Shall  write  their  actions  on  its  deathless  scrolls ! 
Where  Labor  with  his  burden  proudly  smiles. 
And  Men  are  reared,  instead  of  marble  piles ! 
"Where  willing  toils  embrace  the  yielding  sod. 
And  millions  kneel  in  prayer — but  pray  alone  to  God ! 

Shall  this  be  our  Republic  ?    Ay !  though  guile 
And  wrong  may  lift  their  threat'ning  front  a  while  ; 
Though  leaders  falter,  and  defenders  fail ; 
Though  statesmen  may  betray,  and  champions  quail,— 
Be  sure,  (though  leprous  spots  have  scarred  it  o'er,) 
The  People's  Heart  is  sound  within  its  core  ! 
Above  the  din  of  battling  Politics 
The  People's  Heart  still  throbs — with  Seventy-six  ! 

God  bless  the  Heart  of  the  People  !    It  meaneth 
Eternally  well — and  it  hateth  all  wrong : 

And  ever  to  goodness  and  nobleness  leaneth ; 
And  hopeth  in  heaven,  though  long 
It  hath  suflered  from  shackle  and  thong. 


99 


Duganne, 


TRUE  REPUBLIC. 


'Tis  the  Heart  of  the  People  first  throbbeth  indignant, 

When  despots  would  rivet  their  fetters  accurst : 
And  fronts  with  bold  bosom  the  tyrant  malignant — 
And  swells,  till  with  glorious  burst. 
Out  gushes  the  flame  it  hath  nursed. 

'Tis  the  Heart  of  the  People — in  mighty  ovation — 
Flings  chaplets  of  fame  in  the  patriot's  path : 

Or  grapples  with  fraud  on  his  mountainous  station, 
And  showeth  what  terrors  it  hath, 
When  wrong  shall  awaken  its  wrath  ! 

'Tis  the  Heart  of  the  People  that  lovingly  weepeth, 
When  famishing  nations  cry  wildly  for  bread ; 
And  forth  from  that  Heart,  how  its  sympathy  leapeth. 

Till  banquets  for  hunger  are  spread; 

And  the  living  arise  from  the  dead  ! 

Then,  God  bless  the  Heart  of  the  People !  and  arm  it 

With  boldness,  and  goodness,  and  vigor  and  light ; 
Till  Force  shall  not  frighten,  till  Fraud  shall  not  charm  it ; 

And,  shaken  by  sinews  of  Right, 

Shall  crumble  the  idols  of  Might ! 

Oh !  then  shall  the  Heart  of  the  People — an  ocean 
Of  rivers,  commingling,  each  spirit  a  wiwe — 

Roll  on  in  one  choral,  harmonic  devotion. 
The  Throne  of  the  Father  to  lave : 
One  Heaven,  one  Hope — as  one  Grave. 


Poetical  Works. 


roil  ^arp. 


Duganne, 


w 


0,  YE  who  round  the  Cross  of  Suffering  cluster ! 
Fair  souls,  whose  inward  love  rays  out  in  light, — 

Lo !  in  my  heart  hath  fallen  that  holy  lustre. 
Chasing  the  shadows  of  my  starless  night : 
Ye  have  revealed  Heaven's  brightness  to  my  sight. 

Valiant  and  high-souled  Man  and  glorious  Woman  ! 
Such  as  once  walked  with  God  in  Paradise; 

Such  as  have  loved  with  hearts  all  soft  and  human ; 
Such  as  have  lived  like  saints  in  mortal  guise, — 
These,  such  as  these,  before  my  soul  arise. 

Ye  are  around  me,  like  bright  angels,  ever ; 
Breathing  sweet  prayers,  like  music,  in  mine  ears : 

Prompting  each  valorous  thought — each  high  endeavor ; 
Soothing  my  heart  when  mocked  by  phantom  fears, — 
And  with  warm  love-looks  drying  all  my  teais. 

Ye  who  have  lived  and  loved  'mid  earthly  suflFering — 
Ye  who  now  chant  in  Heaven's  eternal  choir ! 

Lo !  I  would  crown  your  tombs  with  this,  mine  offering : 
Thoughts  I  have  moulded  in  my  bosom's  fire — 
Voices  of  Hope,  within  mine  Iron  Lyre. 


Poetical  Works. 




©IJp  Iron  IjHrjp. 

THE  SONG  OF  TOIL. 


ET  him  who  will,  rehearse  the  song 

Of  gentle  love  and  bright  Romance ! 
Let  him  who  will,  with  tripping  tongue, 
Lead  gleaming  thoughts  to  Fancy's  dance ; 
But  let  ME  strike  mine  L'on  Harp, — 

As  Northern  harps  were  struck  of  old ! 
And  let  its  music,  clear  and  sharp, 
Arouse  the  free  and  bold  ! 

My  hands  that  Iron  Harp  shall  sweep, 
Till  from  each  stroke  new  strains  recoil ; 

And  forth  the  sounding  echoes  leap, 
To  join  the  arousing  Song  op  Toil  : 

Till  men  of  mind  their  thoughts  outspeak. 
And  thoughts  awake  in  kindred  mind ; 

And  stirring  words  shall  nerve  the  weak, 
And  fetters  cease  to  bind ! 

 ■        '   ' 


Duganne. 


IRON  HARP. 


And,  crashing  soon  o'er  soul  and  sense, 


That  glorious  harp,  whose  iron  strings 
Are  Labor's  mighty  instruments, 


Shall  shake  the  thrones  of  mortal  kings : 
And  ring  of  axe — and  anvil-note  ; 

And  rush  of  plough  through  yielding  soil ; 
And  laboring  engine's  vocal  throat, — 
Shall  swell  the  Song  of  Toil  ! 


To  tear  the  grave-clothes  from  the  buried  ages— 
To  lift  the  mighty  curtain  of  the  Past ! — 

And,  'mid  the  war  that  old  Opinion  wages, 
Deal  out  his  warnings  like  a  trumpet-blast : — 
This  is  the  Poet's  task ! 

Thank  God  for  Light ! 
Praised  be  the  Source  of  mortal  might  and  being, 

That  he  hath  stripped  the  veil  from  off  our  eyes ! 
Now,  in  the  blessed  consciousness  of  seeing, 

Man  may  gaze  upward,  to  the  glorious  skies. 


THE  poet's  TASK. 


WHAT  is  the  Poet's  task  ? 


With  a  strong  sight ! 


4 


Poetical  Works. 


Il<(»\    II  Altl*. 


Labor  liatli  raised  its  voice  !(') 
The  strong  right  arm — the  mighty  limbs  of  iron — 
The  hand  embrowned  by  grappling  with  its  toil : 
The  eyes  which,  on  the  perils  that  environ, 

Gaze  from  the  honest  soul  that  wears  no  soil ; — 
These  are  its  silent  voice ! — 


Silent. — but,  oh  !  how  deep ! — 
Rousing  the  world  to  wrestle  with  its  curses — 
Speaking  the  hope  of  Freedom  to  the  earth : 
Vulcan-like  stand  again  those  iron  nurses, 
To  give  the  panoplied  Minerva  birth, 
From  her  long,  death-like  sleep ! 

Read  me,  ye  schoolmen,  now — 
Read  me  the  riddle  which  our  Samson  showeth: 

Out  of  the  Strong  comes  SweetnessQ  once  again 
Lo !  from  the  brute  how  strength' ning  honey  floweth— 
Meat  for  the  suffering  souls  of  famished  men  ! 
'Tis  the  world's  riddle  now ! 

Forth  shall  the  nations  start 
Labor  is  calling  on  the  heart  and  spirit — 

Labor  is  casting  all  its  gyves  away, — 
Labor  the  garland  and  the  sheaf  shall  merit ; — 
Break  thou  upon  my  sight,  0  glorious  day ! 
Bless  thou  the  Poet's  heart ! 


105 


Duganne. 

Q^^^SJi^.    ■v^.^^g\g. 


THE  POET  AND  THE  PEOPLE. 


SPOKE  well  the  Grecian,  when  he  said  that  poems 
"Were  the  high  laws  that  swayed  a  nation's  mind — 

Voices  that  live  on  echoes — 

Brief  and  prophetic  proems, 
Opening  the  great  heart-book  of  human  kind ! 

Songs  are  a  nation's  pulses,  which  discover 
If  the  great  body  be  as  nature  willed; 

Songs  are  the  spasms  of  soul. 

Telling  us  when  men  suffer : 
Dead  is  the  nation's  heart  whose  songs  are  stilled: 

Lo  1  the  firm  poet  is  the  Truth's  dispenser — 

Standing,  like  Heaven's  high-priest,  before  its  shrine ; 

And  his  high  thoughts,  like  incense, 

From  his  soul's  golden  censer, 
Rise  to  God's  throne — a  sacrifice  divine  ! 


Stands  he  like  Samuel,  darkly  prophesying — 

Threats  he,  like  Nathan,  humbling  Judah's  king — 
Comes  he  as  John  the  Baptist, 
'Mid  the  wild  desert  crying, — 
Still  from  his  soul  the  impatient  voice  must  spring. 

1 06 

Q^^-ey^    -s^^ 


Poetical  Works. 

Qj^^G^^  '^oyB^^Q 

IRON  MAUI'. 

Speaks  ho  to  senseless  tyrants,  who  with  scourges 
"Would  curb  the  ocean  of  the  human  heart! — 
Over  tlieir  whips  and  fetters, 
Rush  his  bold  songs,  like  surges : 
Forth  from  the  caverns  of  deep  thought  they  start. 

Still  for  the  People — still  for  Man  and  Freedom — 
Boldly  his  Titan  words  the  bard  must  speak ; 
Till  his  too  long-lost  birthright 
Shall  be  regained  by  Edom(^) — 
Till,  to  restore  that  right,  Jacob  shall  Esau  seek ! 


THE  POET  TO  THE  PEOPLE. 


LIST!  ye  stern,  hard-handed  toilers  ! 

Ye  who  suffer — ^ye  who  strive ! 
Time  has  been  when  your  despoilers 

Gave  ye  lash,  and  task,  and  gyve : 
Time  has  been  when  each  low  murmur 

Brought  the  scourge  upon  your  flesh ; 
When  each  struggle  fixed  ye  firmer 

In  your  tyrants'  cunning  mesh ! 

Ye  were  then  the  bond  and  vassal, 
And  your  master's  will  obeyed- 

Though  ye  built  his  lordly  castle. 
And  his  arms  and  armor  made : 

:  107 

-QS'ey-^   — 


Duganne. 


IRON  HARP. 


Even  the  chains  with  which  he  galled  you, 

Your  own  fingers  did  create  ; 
And  the  very  power  which  thralled  you, 

From  yourselves  was  delegate  ! 


Thus  ye  suffered — still  unknowing ; 

Still  in  douht  and  darkness  toiled ; 
Still  your  sweat  and  blood  were  flowing — 

Still  your  tyrants  wronged  and  spoiled ! 
For  ye  thought  that  ye  were  minions. 

And  that  lords  were  nobler  things — 
And  your  faith  was  old  Opinion's, 

And  the  holy  right  of  kings. 


But  one  bold  and  firm  endeavor 

Broke  your  chains  like  threads  of  flax — 
And  a  shield  was  raised  forever 

'Gainst  the  Wronger' s  fell  attacks ! 
Now  ye  feel  that  glorious  labors 

Stain  not  man's  immortal  soul ; 
Iron  ploughs  must  rule  the  sabres, 

Sledges  must  the  crowns  control. 


Still  ye  raise  the  shaft  to  heaven — 
Still  ye  force  each  mighty  toil : 

Still  by  you  the  waves  are  riven — 
Still  by  you  is  rent  the  soil ; — 


^^^llQSL^       Poetical  Works. 


But  yc  feel  that  ye  no  longer 

Are  the  slaves  whieh  once  ye  were ; 

Feel  that  ye  are  purer — stronger ; 
Feel  that  ye  can  wait — and  bear  ! 


THE   CHAMPIONS    OF  MANKIND. 


JIO  W  gloriously,  from  out  the  gloom  of  Ages, 
Flash  the  true  beacon-lights  of  lofty  souls : 

Gleaming  still  brighter,  as  Life's  tempest  rages — 
Gilding  the  tide  that  to  Oblivion  rolls ! 

Gracchus  !  first  martyr  (^)  to  the  cause  of  reason — 
Still  shall  thy  thought  each  patriot's  heart  inflame ; 

Valiant  Wat  Tyler  ! — if  thine  acts  were  treason. 
Then  may  such  treason  gild  each  freeman's  name  ! 

Cromwell,  thou  tyrant-queller !  slaves  may  hate  thee ; 

Courtiers  may  all  thy  lofty  traits  deny : 
Courtiers  and  slaves  did  not,  could  not,  create  thee ! 

Thou  wert  of  Mankind's  Cause — which  shall  not  die. 


Lo !  there  are  Gracchi  even  now  among  us— 
J        Tylers,  and  Cromwells,  in  the  People's  van : 
Lo !  there  are  beacons,  which  the  Past  has  flung  us 
Flaming  upon  the  throbbing  heart  of  man  ! 


}y^=^   ^"g"^^^-  

^  n  IRON  HARP.  (1  I 

We  have  beheld  an  awful  Hand,  inscribing 

Jehovah's  sentence  on  the  walls  of  Wrong ! 
Passed  is  the  hour  for  mirth,  and  scorn,  and  gibing — 
Heaven's  balance  weighs  the  Just  against  the  Strong. 


THE  ARTISAN. 


LIFT  up  thine  iron  hand — 
Thou  of  the  stalwart  arm  and  fearless  eye ! 
Lift  proudly,  now,  thine  iron  hand  on  high — 

Firm  and  undaunted  stand  ! 

No  need  hast  thou  of  gems, 
To  deck  the  temple  of  thy  glorious  thought : 
Thou  hast  the  jewels  which  thy  mind  enwrought — 

Richer  than  diadems ! 

Thou  art  our  God's  high-priest ! 
Standing  before  great  Nature's  mighty  shrine ; 
For  the  whole  world  the  glorious  task  is  thine, 

To  spread  the  eternal  feast. 

Even  like  the  Hebrew  chief, 
Strikest  thou  on  the  rock,  and,  from  its  deep. 
Mysterious  heart — the  living  waters  leap. 

To  give  the  earth  relief. 


Poetical  Works.  ^^^^ 


Mighty  iuuong  thy  kind, 
Standest  thou,  man  of  iron  toil !  midway 
Between  the  earth  and  licavcn,  all  things  to  sway 

By  thy  high- working  mind  ! 

Thou  canst  delve  in  the  earth, 
And  from  its  mighty  caves  bring  forth  pure  gold ; 
Thou  canst  unwrap  the  clouds  in  heaven  rolled, 

And  give  the  lightnings  birth. 

Thou  hast  the  stormy  sea 
Chained  to  thy  chariot-wheels,  and  the  wild  winds 
Obey  the  o'er-ruling  intellect  that  binds 

Their  rushing  wings  to  thee. 

Thou  canst  bid  Thought  go  forth 
Upon  the  electric  pinions  of  the  air, 
And  through  the  opposeless  ether  thou  canst  bear 

Thy  words  from  South  to  North. 

Thou  canst  new  lands  create. 
Where  the  wild-rolling  wave  no  mastery  owns ; 
And  the  vast  distance  of  opposing  zones 

Canst  thou  annihilate ! 

Thou  know'st  heaven's  ordinances — 
And  their  dominion  in  the  earth  thou  seest  I 
And  the  floods  hear  thee,  in  their  shrouds  of  mist. 

And  bring  their  fruitfulness  ! 


Duganne. 


IRON  HARP. 


Lift,  then,  th}^  hand  to  heaven  ! 


Spread  thy  toil-sceptre  o'er  the  sea  and  land : 
Thou  hast  the  world  intrusted  to  thy  hand — 
Earth  to  thy  charge  is  given  I 


MEN   OF  THOUGHT. 


MEN  who  ponder,  list  to  me  ! 
In  the  depths  of  all  your  hearts, 
Something  lives  and  something  starts : 

It  would  mount — it  would  be  free — 

Chain  it  not,  I  counsel  ye  ! 

Men  who  in  the  furrow  tread, 

Sowing  seed  within  the  earth — 
Trusting  in  its  future  birth, — 

Lo !  within  your  hearts  lies  dead 

Seed  that  may  be  future  bread ! 

Men  whose  lives  with  toil  are  fraught — 
Ye  who  o'er  the  anvil  bow, — 
In  your  souls,  O  gaze  ye  now : 

There  abides  the  anvil,  thought — 


There  may  mighty  deeds  be  wrought ! 


I  I  2 


Poetical  Works. 


IKON  I! A  1(1', 


Ac'oriirt  blossom  to  the  oiik — 
Drops  of  rain  to  oceans  swell: 
Dare  not  ye  your  thoughts  to  quell ! 
Never  yet  was  truth  outspoke, 
That  hath  not  an  echo  woke  ! 

Dare  not  ye  your  thoughts  to  hide  ! 
On  the  waters  cast  your  bread  : 
Prophets  were  by  ravens  fed. 

If  to  speak  it  hath  not  tried. 

Then  is  Thought  a  suicide  ! 


Speak  ye,  men  of  thought !  speak  out — 

Trust  ye  still  response  to  find ! 

Thoughts  will  wake  in  kindred  mind ; 
Even  as  the  arousing  shout 

Starts  reply  from  caverns  deep. 

Echoes,  till  ye  speak,  will  sleep. 

Patch  not  ancient  lies  with  new ! 
Moths  will  seek  their  old  abode : 
Build  on  sand  a  marble  road. 

And  'twill  sink  its  basis  through. 
Rivets  in  a  rotten  shield 
Will  but  make  it  sooner  yield. 


"3 


Duganne, 


Wliat  though  ye  be  weak  and  few  ? 

What  though  never  a  sunbeam  smiles  ? 

Insects  build  the  coral  isles — 
Insects  pierce  the  ocean  through : 

Ye  are  men — and  will  ye  quail, 

When  the  insect  did  not  fail  ? 

Clothed  with  nightshade  thrive  the  oaks : 
Truth,  though  bound  in  shackles,  thrives ; 
Error  forgeth  her  own  gyves, 

As  itself  the  nightshade  chokes. 

Stars,  and  flowers,  and  all  things  bright, 
Work  through  darkness  into  light. 

Speak  ye,  then,  to  echoing  souls. 
Till  the  eternal  concave  sound — 
Till  around  Creation  roll 

Voices  from  the  vast  profound : 

Even  like  the  glorious  shouts  that  rang, 
When  morning  stars  together  sang. 


WORDS   OF  HOPE. 


DREAMERS!  wake  ye  fi^om  your  revery — 
Sleepers !  rouse  ye  from  your  sleep ! 

Wrong  and  vice,  in  virtue's  livery. 
Round  jQ  like  the  serpents  creep 


Poetical  Works.  ,_rvf 


IRON  IIAUr 


Men  arc  drops,  mid  iUnl  tlie  oceiiii :  -AL 
Lives  are  streams  that  flow  to  heaven ;  V 
Ye  must  act  in  mingling  motion, 
Else  to  vapors  ye  are  driven ! 

Fix  your  glances  on  futurity : 

Lo !  where  beams  the  day-spring  bright ! 
Ye  may  yet  know  joy  and  purity — 

Darkness  may  be  changed  to  light ! 

God  sleeps  not,  though  sleeps  humanity ; 

Still  he  moves  in  fire  and  cloud : 
Heaven  is  not  a  vast  inanity — 

Earth  is  more  than  mankind's  shroud ! 

Good  is  in  our  race,  though  hidden — 

Peace  is  mightier  far  than  strife : 
Earth  may  yet  be  made  an  Eden, 

Heaven  be  reached  in  mortal  life ! 

There  is  naught  so  high  and  holy. 

As  the  hope  which  conquers  pain : 
In  yourselves,  ye  crushed  and  lowly, 

Lives  the  power  to  rise  again ! 


Trust  not  that  which  startles  reason- 
Good  can  ne'er  be  gained  by  ill ; 

All  that  chains,  or  clouds,  is  treason- 
^Taught  is  powerful,  but  "I  will  !" 
"5 


Duganne. 

IRON  HARP. 

Would  ye  read  the  Eternal's  mystery  ? 

Like  blind  Bartimeus  pray  ! 
Eyes  that  best  discern  God's  history, 

"Were  anointed  first  with  clay. 

Gaze  from  well-deeps  into  heaven, 
And  ye  see  the  stars  at  noon ; 

Thus  to  lowly  sense  is  given 
Reason's  best  and  richest  boon  ! 

"Not  one  grain  of  earth's  material 

Ever  was  or  shall  be  lost : — 
And  shall  Man's  great  soul  ethereal 

Be  to  dark  oblivion  tost  ? 

Boldly  speak — ^reluctant  lisper ! 

Truth's  appeal  will  mount  on  high  : 
Each  brave  word — each  feeble  whisper — 

Once  breathed  out,  can  never  die  I 

1 

life's  ODYSSEY. 

BROTHERS  mine !  we  are  on  life's  ocean 
Stout  our  bark  and  the  wind  astern ; 

Hearts  wound  up  to  a  brave  devotion : 
We  shall  suffer — we  shall  learn  ! 

ii6 


Poetical  Works. 



lUON   II A  III*. 

Brothers  ruiiio  !  now  the  blue  wave  kisses, 

Greets  our  prow  with  its  lips  of  foiini  : 
We  are  bound,  like  the  bold  Ulysses, 
Onward,  onward — wandering  home. 

Helmsman  !  grasp  the  obedient  tiller ! 

Yonder  swells  the  arising  deep ; 
Here's  Charybdis,  and  there  is  Scylla — 
Storm  and  wreck  between  them  sleep. 

List  ye  not  to  the  Sirens'  wooing — 

Speed  ye  on  o'er  the  mystic  wave : 
Slothful  rest  is  the  soul's  undoing — 
Pleasure's  couch  is  Virtue's  grave. 

Brothers  mine !  to  the  struggle  bend  you — 
Ply  your  oars  with  an  earnest  strength ! 
Labor  on  till  the  gods  befriend  you : 

Home  shall  bless  your  hearts  at  length. 

PAST  PRESENT  FUTURE. 

alios T  of  the  buried  Past ! 
Lo !  we  invoke  thee  from  the  shroud  of  Ages — 
Even  from  the  awful  shroud  of  withered  Time ! 
Come,  with  the  lore  of  prophets  and  of  sages  1 
Come,  with  thy  mystic  truths,  and  thoughts  sublime, 
Like  raiment  round  thee  cast ! 

"7 


Duganne. 

   -JiyB,^\Q 

IRON  HARP.  ; 

Clad  in  his  iron  mail, 
Yet  trembling  in  the  shadowy  light  uncertain, 

Standeth  the  Present,  like  the  monarch  Saul  ; 
To  lift  the  darksome  Future's  mighty  curtain, 
Calling  dead  Samuel  from  his  mystic  pall — 
Dead  Samuel,  cold  and  pale  ! 


A  weak  and  frail  old  man. 
And  bowed  beneath  the  weight  of  thy  foretelling, 

Art  thou,  0  phantom  of  the  buried  years ! 
Lo !  as  we  bend,  like  Saul,  with  bosoms  swelling, 
Scarce  (through  the  cloudy  mantle  of  thy  tears) 
May  we  thy  features  scan. 

Even  like  that  twain  of  old. 
To  speak  and  hear  the  solemn  words  of  warning, — 

Prophet  and  King,  the  Past  and  Present  stand ; 
This,  as  a  corpse — no  gems  nor  crown  adorning — 
And  this,  with  crested  brow  and  sceptred  hand, 
A  monarch  stern  and  bold  ! 


List  we  the  Prophet's  cry — 
The  Past,  the  Present,  and  the  Future's  story : 

Samuel,  and  Saul,  and  David,  live  once  more ; 
Soon  shall  the  new-born  light  beam  forth  in  glory- 
Soon  shall  the  darkness  of  our  world  be  o'er ; 
The  Future  draweth  nigh ! 


Poetical  Works. 

g^N.J)^   .  '^oy^^j'Q 

moN  iiAiu'. 

Read  wc  the  pariiblc — 
No  more  tlie  living  (lend  our  earth  shall  cumber! 

The  mighty  strife  of  human  hearts  shall  cease ! 
The  dying  Present  with  the  Past  shall  slumber — 
And  Man  awake  to  hail  the  Future's  peace  ! 
Kead  we  the  lesson  well ! 


THE   LAMENT   OF  PAN. 


LISTEN  to  the  heart  of  old  Pan       how  it  sobbeth 
For  Man  :  how  it  swelleth  with  sorrow,  and  throbbeth 
With  horror,  and  river-like  poureth  its  tears — 
And  with  agony  scoreth  the  column  of  years ! 

Listen  to  the  wail  of  old  Pan — how  he  groaneth 
For  Man — how  he  striveth  in  terror,  and  moaneth, 
While  Error  her  serpents  would  throw  on  his  life — 
Like  the  old  Laocoon  in  terrible  strife  ! 

Listen  to  the  prayer  of  old  Pan — while  he  bleedeth 

For  Man  !  how,  beneath  each  dread  curse,  he  yet  pleadeth 

For  mercy — for  saviors,  to  free  us  from  blight — 

For  some  new  Prometheus  to  bring  heaven's  light ! 

119 

   ^^qf^ 


Duganne, 

9=  ^ 


IRON  HARP. 


Listen  to  the  story  of  Pan — ^how  he  speaketh 
For  Man  :  how,  with  holy  endeavor,  he  seeketh 
Forever  on  Man  to  bestow  a  fair  fame — 
And,  like  Shem  with  old  ^Toah,  concealeth  his  shame. 

Listen  to  the  hope  of  old  Pan — how  prophetic 
For  Man:  how,  though  darkly  he  gropeth,  ecstatic 
He  hopeth  for  succor  from  Heaven  at  length ; 
When  that  time  shall  have  given  the  ITazarite  strength. 

Listen  to  the  words  of  old  Pan — and  be  ruthful 
To  Man  :  blessed  Psyche,  be  loving  and  truthful ; 
And,  proving  forever  thy  mission  on  earth. 
Let  thy  holy  contrition  give  happiness  birth ! 


LIVE   THEM  DOWN. 


BROTHER !  art  thou  poor  and  lowly, 
Toiling,  drudging  day  by  day, 

Journeying  painfully  and  slowly, 
On  thy  dark  and  desert  way  ? 

Pause  not — though  the  proud  ones  frown  ! 

Sink  not,  fear  not ! — Live  them  down  ! 


Though  to  Vice  thou  shalt  not  pander. 
Though  to  Virtue  thou  mayst  kneel, 


Poetical  Works. 

IKON  HAItP. 

Yet  thou  sluilt  escape  not  slander ; 

Jibe  and  lie  thy  soul  must  feel ; 
Jest  of  witling — curse  of  clown  : 
Heed  not  either ! — Live  them  down ! 

Ilate  may  wield  her  scourges  horrid ; 

Malice  may  thy  woes  deride ; 
Scorn  may  bind  with  thorns  thy  forehead ; 

Envy's  spear  may  pierce  thy  side ! 
Lo !  through  Cross  shall  come  the  Crown ! 
Fear  not  foemen  ! — Live  them  down ! 


THE  ANGELS. 


ANGEL  OF  hope: 

I  HEAR  thy  wings,  my  sister, 
Though  the  night  is  dark  around  thee — 
Oh,  those  wings  are  drooping  heavily. 
As  if  the  tempest  bound  thee. 
Tell  me,  sister — whither  now  ? 
Whence  and  wherefore  journeyest  thou? 

angel  of  suffering  : 

I  come — Oh,  I  come. 
From  the  hapless  realms, 

"Where  souls  are  dumb, 
Where  wrong  o'erwhelms ; 


Duganne.  


 ^^®&s^ 

IRON  HARP.  '  ^k:} 

From  the  land  where  the  Famine  hath  been —  ® 

w  ft 

Hath  been  and  will  be  again ; 
And  wring  the  hearts  of  desperate  men 

With  sloWj  consuming  pain, — 
Till  souls  that  once  were  free  from  sin 

Are  black  as  the  soul  of  Cain  ! 
Famishing  mothers,  and  famishing  sires, 

And  sons  with  hearts  of  hate ; 
Lighting  their  terrible  signal-fires, 
Piling  their  hovels  in  funeral  pyres — 
Lying  in  wait. 
With  hearts  of  hate, 
At  the  cruel  tyrant's  gate  ! 
Earth  is  mighty,  and  earth  hath  room 

For  millions  of  souls  unborn  ; 
Harvests  smile,  and  orchards  bloom, 

And  fields  are  heavy  with  corn  ! 
And  yet  there  cometh  the  Famine's  doom, 
And  the  livid  Plague's  despairing  gloom, 
O'er  Erin's  land  forlorn  ! 

ANGEL  OF  hope: 

Heaven  helpeth — Heaven  helpeth — 

Though  the  clouds  may  darkly  frown : 
Heaven  lifts  the  poor  and  wretched — 
Heaven  brings  the  haughty  down ! 
Trust  in  heaven,  suffering  Angel : —  V? 
Sorrow  seals  the  true  evangel ! 


Poetical  Works, 


IKON  IIAKI'. 

ANGEL  OF  SUFFERING:  vM 

I  have  been  to  the  darksome  mine,  ^ 

Where  Albion's  infiint  slaves 
111  wretchedness  toil — in  hopelessness  pine, 
From  birth  to  earth ; — 
N"or  joy  nor  mirth 
From  cradles  unto  graves  ! 
Children  with  withered  hearts, 
And  maidens  with  never  a  maiden's  shame, — 

Toiling  and  toiling  till  life  departs, 
Living  and  dying  without  a  name ; 
Living  forever  to  labor  and  labor, 
Cursing  their  lords. 
With  horrible  words, — 
Wrestling  with  brother,  and  struggling  with  neighbor. 


ANGEL  OF  HOPE: 

Heaven  is  mighty !  and  God  is  good ! 
Little  of  love  is  understood ! 
Yet  cometh  the  hour 
Of  Beauty  and  Power — 
Cometh  the  glorious  day — 
When  Right  shall  be  Might, 

And  Darkness  Light, 
And  Wrong  be  swept  away. 


Duganne. 


IRON  HARP. 


THE   world's  lie. 


I  LOOKED  from  out  the  grating 

Of  my  spirit's  dungeon-cell — 
And  I  saw  the  Life-tide  rolling, 

With  a  sullen,  angry  swell ; 
And  the  battle-ships  were  riding 

Like  leviathans  in  pride — 
While  their  cannon-shot  were  raining 

On  the  stormy  human  tide. 
Then  my  soul  in  anguish  wept. 

Sending  forth  a  wailing  cry : 
Said  the  World,  "  This  comes  from  heaven !" 

Said  my  soul,  "  It  is  a  LIE  !" 

I  looked  from  out  the  grating 

Of  my  spirit's  dungeon-cell — 
And  a  sound  of  mortal  moaning 

On  my  reeling  senses  fell ; 
And  I  heard  the  fall  of  lashes, 

And  the  clank  of  iron  chains, 
And  I  saw  where  Men  were  writhing 

Under  Slavery's  cruel  pains. 
Then  my  soul  looked  up  to  God, 

With  a  wo-beclouded  eye  : 


Said  the  World,  "  This  comes  from  heaven !" 
Said  my  soul,  "It  is  a  LIE!" 


Poetical  Works. 


I  looked  from  out  tlie  grating 

Of  my  spirit's  dungcon-ccll — 
And  I  heard  the  solemn  tolling 

Of  a  malefactor's  knell  ; 
And  I  saw  the  frowning  gallows 
Reared  aloft  in  awful  gloom, 
While  a  thousand  eyes  were  gloating 

O'er  a  felon's  horrid  doom. 
And  a  shout  of  heartless  mirth 

On  the  wind  was  rushing  by : 
Said  the  World,  "  This  comes  from  heaven !" 
Said  my  soul,  "It  is  a  LIE !" 

I  looked  from  out  the  grating 

Of  my  spirit's  dungeon-cell — 
Where  the  harvest-wealth  was  blooming 

Over  smiling  plain  and  dell ; 
And  I  saw  a  million  paupers 

With  their  foreheads  in  the  dust — 
And  I  saw  a  million  workers 

Slay  each  other  for  a  crust ! 
And  I  cried,  "  0  God  above  ! 

Shall  thy  People  always  die?" 


Said  the  World,  "  This  comes  from  heaven !" 
Said  my  soul,  "It  is  a  LIE  !" 


T 


Duganne. 


IRON  HARP. 


MEN   OF   MY  COUNTRY. 


MEN  of  my  country  !    Earth  is  wide — 

And  souls  are  kindred  still ! 
Tyrants  with  hate  men's  hearts  divide — 

Freedom  with  love  will  thrill ! 
Oh !  not  enough — oh  !  not  enough, 

That  ye  nor  rob  nor  kill ; 
Your  brethren  ye  must  ngrve  and  guide 

With  your  own  glorious  will. 

Men  of  my  country  !  lo  !  your  keels 

Are  ploughing  every  sea  : 
Still,  wheresoe'er  the  bright  sun  wheels, 

There  in  your  might  are  ye  ! 
Yet  not  enough — oh  !  not  enough, 

That  ye  yourselves  are  free — 
Still  wheresoe'er  a  patriot  kneels 

There  must  your  mission  be ! 

Men  of  my  country !  lo  !  our  God 

Your  destiny  hath  planned : 
"Where'er  a  tyrant  lifts  his  rod. 

There  must  ye  stay  his  hand ! 
Oh !  not  enough — oh  !  not  enough. 

That  heaven  hath  blessed  our  land — 
Where'er  the  soul  of  man  is  trod. 

There  must  ye  make  your  stand. 


Poetical  Works. 

moN  iiAur. 
HOPE    YR  ALWAY. 


YO  UNO-  hearts !  hope  ever ! 
There's  no  time  for  repining  while  work  is  undone — 
There's  no  harvesting  time  save  when  shineth  the  sun. 

0  repine  ye,  then,  never ! 

True  heart !  sink  never ! 
Though  darkly  the  clouds  overshadow  thy  sky, 
Yet  the  sun  will  heam  forth,  when  the  shadows  roll  hy ; 

Darkness  lasteth  not  ever ! 

Fond  heart !  faint  never ! 
Though  Eros  may  journey  full  many  a  mile, 
There's  an  Anteros(^)  somewhere,  with  welcoming  smile : 

Love  endureth  forever ! 


TRU  night  is  dark — the  road  is  blind — 
The  traveller's  heart  is  dreary  : 

Fogs  rise  before,  rain  falls  behind ; 
Both  man  and  steed  are  weary. 

The  floods  pour  fast  on  either  side. 
The  ground  beneath  half  crumbles ; 

The  panting  horse,  with  nostrils  wide, 
ITeighs,  starts,  and  wildly  stumbles. 


THE  SMITHY. 


Duganne. 

IRON  HARP. 

But  hark !  kling,  klang  !  a  hammer-sound— 
Stout  hammer-blows  on  iron  ; 

And  now  a  bright  blaze  gleams  around 
The  shadows  that  environ. 

"I^ow,  God  be  praised !"  the  traveller  cries- 

"  The  road  no  more  is  dreary ! 
"  For  there  the  smith  his  anvil  plies — 

"  There  burns  his  forge  so  cheery. 

"  Kling,  klang !  the  music  glads  mine  ear — 
"  The  blaze  my  path  enlightens ; 

"There  shines  it  brightly  far  and  near: 
"  Stream,  road,  and  hill  it  brightens." 

The  traveller  spurred  his  steed  once  more — 
The  steed  pressed  onward  lightly ; 

Till  soon  before  the  smithy  door 
"Was  drawn  his  bridle  tightly. 

Thus  said  the  traveller  to  the  smith — 
"  Strike  on,  strike  on,  my  master ! 

"  Our  God  is  still  thy  labors  with: 
"  Strike  on,  then,  fast  and  faster ! 

"  And  let  thy  forge-blaze  brighter  gleam — 

"  Thy  hammer-strokes  ring  louder : 

"Kling-klang  thy  blows  !  for  well  I  deem 

"No  task  than  thine  is  prouder! 
128 


Poetical  Works 


IKON  IIAKI'. 

"For  Labor's  blows  shiill  wukc  mankind 

"  With  strokes  of  toil  Titanic — 
"  And  forge-like  shine  the  Toiler's  mind  ! — 
"  Strike  on,  then,  brave  Mechanic  !" 


THE   pauper's  place, 


WHY  art  thou  sad,  0  father  ?  why  is  thy  brow  o'ercast  ? 
Thus  I  spake  a  sorrowing  man 
Whom  I  oft  passed : 

Sitting  alone  by  the  wayside,  begging  his  daily  bread — 
Blind  he  was,  and  snows  of  age 
Whitened  his  head. 

"Grieving  I  am,"  he  answered — "grieving  I  well  may  be ; 
"  There's  no  place  in  burial  ground 
For  such  as  me." 

Truly,  (I  said,)  my  father — buried  thou'lt  be,  I  ween : 
Charity  will  bestow  thee  place 
In  churchyard  green. 

Answered  to  me  that  old  man,  sorrowful  answered  he :  > 

"  Poor-house  bed  and  surgeon's  board 

Are  place  for  me !" 
129 


Duganne, 


THE  POOR. 


THE  storm  is  out  upon  the  air- 
I  hear  its  hollow  sound, 

As,  seated  in  my  elbow-chair. 
In  silent  thought  profound, 

I  listen  to  the  dropping  rain, 
That  patters  on  each  pane. 


iN'ow,  shrieking  through  the  stormy  night, 

The  wind  is  rushing  wild ; 
And  far  above  in  heaven's  height 

The  murky  clouds  are  piled : 
And  not  a  single  star  looks  down 

To  smile  away  the  frown. 


The  signs  are  creaking  in  the  street, 
The  vanes  are  whirling  fast; 

And  drearily  the  driving  sleet 
Is  borne  upon  the  blast ; 

And  gusty  rain,  and  icy  hail. 
The  close-barred  doors  assail ! 

The  watchman  shrinketh  in  his  box, 
As  fast  the  chill  rain  falls, 

And  with  the  clanging  city  clocks 
His  solemn  warning  calls — 


Poetical  Works. 


lUON  IIAUP. 


Or,  closer  in  his  mantle  wound, 
Reluctant  stalks  his  round ! 

But  wandering  up  and  down  the  streets. 

Amid  the  chilly  mist, 
Oh !  many  hapless  ones  he  meets 

Upon  his  round,  I  wist ; 
The  child  of  shame,  of  want,  of  wo. 

Who  wanders  to  and  fro. 

Ah  me !  how  many  houseless  ones 

Are  sinking  on  the  ground — 
The  outcast,  whom  the  proud  one  shuns — 

"Who  pity  never  found, — 
The  friendless  and  the  orphan  child. 

Amid  the  storm  so  wild. 

Creeping  away  through  alleys  old. 

Before  the  tempest  drear ; 
With  hunger  cramped — benumbed  with  cold, 

And  shivering  with  fear, — 
The  sad  one  bendeth  down  his  form, 

Before  the  midnight  storm. 

Oh !  there  are  little  childken  there, 

With  lean  and  shrunken  limbs. 
Within  whose  eye  the  tear  of  care 

The  light  of  childhood  dims — 
»3« 


Duganne, 


IRON  HARP. 


Pale  lips  they  have,  and  cheeks  so  white — 
Oh  !  'tis  a  fearful  sight ! 


Hear  ye  the  wind  that  whistles  by — 
O  thoughtless  sons  of  pride  ? 

On  it  was  borne  their  broken  sigh 
Who  in  the  streets  abide. 

Ye  on  your  beds  of  down  will  sleep — 
They  on  the  stones  must  weep. 


Feel  ye  the  glowing  flame  that  warms 
Your  luxury-lapp'd  couch  ? — 

Oh  !  could  ye  mark  the  wasted  forms 
Along  the  streets  that  crouch, — 

Ye  might  perchance  a  moment  feel 
Your  blood,  like  theirs,  congeal  I 


O  !  that  I  had  what  jq  in  mirth, 
Or  worse  than  mirth,  expend ! — 

I'd  buy  the  noblest  name  on  earth — 
"The  wretched  outcast's  friend 

And  treasure  up — as  incense  pure — 
The  blessings  of  the  Poor. 


Poetical  Works. 



IKON  II A  UP. 


THE  POET. 


LIKE  the  wandering  camp  of  Israel,  in  the  wilder- 
ness of  ZiN, 

Is  the  mighty  world  we  dwell  in,  with  its  turmoil  and 
its  din ; 

And  the  Poet,  like  old  Moses,  when  his  thoughts  to 
God  aspire, 

Holdeth  commune  with  high  Heaven,  on  his  spirit's 
Mount  of  Fire. 

From  the  camp  of  old  opinions,  and  the  strife  of 

earthly  things, 
To  the  Sinai  of  his  spirit,  lo !  the  trusting  Poet 

springs : 

And  the  glorious  words  of  Genius,  by  Jehovah's 

fingers  wrought, 
Like  the  tablets  of  high  teachings,  are  engraven  on  his 

thought. 

Then,  with  ardent  hopes  and  longings,  to  the  camp  of 

men  he  turns. 
While  the  reflex  of  God's  splendor  on  his  lofty  forehead 

burns : 

Lo !  they  kneel  before  an  idol — lo !  they  worship 

senseless  gold, 
Like  the  wilderness  idolaters,  before  the  calf  of  old  ! 


Duganne. 

IKON  HARP. 

Can  ye  blame  the  lofty  Poet  that  he  turns  in  scorn 
away 

From  the  grovelling  souls  around  him  that  are  moulded 
in  the  clay  ? 

Can  ye  blame  him,  if,  despairing,  he  shall  dash  his 

thoughts  to  earth : — 
Break  the  tablets  of  his  genius,  that  in  God  have  had 

their  birth  ? 


HOPE  ON. 


HOPE  on ! 
Even  when  thy  liieav^jQ  is  cloudec^-j 

Seest  thou  no% 
Where  the  dark  night  is  shroudec^  7 

Stars  look  out'?  - 1 
[Though  they  are  hidden,  still  they  shines- 
Soon  shalt  thou  se^'kheir  light  divine[!]y.| . 


^Hopeon!il 
/Often  the  dark  shadow  falleth/ 

fOver  thy  soul:  ]  .        ,  . 

CO'er  thee  the  storm  that  appalleth] 

^Often  must  roll : 
fYetlbut  remember'^  Jight  must  be, 
Else%ere  the,  sliadoio'vi^^QQr\\hj  thee^J. 

Q^^ey^    ^-'€N^■' 


Poetical  Works. 

—   '^oyB^^Q. 

IRON  UAKl'.  ; 

THE  toiler's  hope. 


ON  this  old  and  glorious  earth, 
Toiling  all  their  lifetime  through, 

Millions  live  who  from  their  birth 
Still  have  bowed  them  to  the  few : 

They  have  bent,  and  groaned,  and  striven, 

By  the  lash  of  misery  driven, — 

What  hath  God  to  these  men  given  ? 


Toiling,  toiling,  still  they  bear — 
Still  to  toil  the  master  urges ; 

If  a  murmuring  word  they  dare. 

Straight  'tis  hushed  by  tyrant  scourges. 

Yet  these  men  have  deathless  spirits ; 

Life  from  God  each  heart  inherits, — 

Tell  me,  then,  if  death  it  merits  ! 


Gold  hath  made  these  mortals  slaves ; 

Gold  hath  bowed  their  suppliant  hands ; 
From  their  birthdays  to  their  graves. 

Chained  are  they  with  cruel  bands : 
They  have  suffered — they  have  waited — 
They  have  been  as  outcasts  rated : 
Say — were  they  by  God  thus  fated? 
»3S 


I 


Duganne. 


^  God  will  give  these  bondmen  friends — 

Friends  of  thought,  and  friends  of  action: 
Thoughts  that  shape  out  glorious  ends — 

Acts  that  are  not  ruled  by  faction. 
And  these  friends,  in  truth  and  reason, 
(Holding  noble  deeds  no  treason,) 
Soon  will  crush  the  bondman's  prison. 


EARTH-SHARING. 


LISTEN,  workers  !  Hsten ! 
Ye  who  all  your  lives  are  toiling. 
In  the  field  and  workshop  moiling, — 
Lo !  your  serpent-wrongs  are  coiling 

Closer  round  you.    Listen  ! 

Ponder,  workers  !  ponder ! 
"While  ye  poise  your  iron  sledges, 
"While  ye  fix  your  rending  wedges, — 
Lo  !  your  strength  and  skill  are  pledges 

Of  your  manhood.    Ponder ! 

Listen,  workers  !  listen ! 
Sledges  may  crush  else  than  matter : 
"Wedges  may  your  curses  scatter, — 
Toilers  once  again  may  batter 

Moral  Bastiles.    Listen  ! 


Poetical  Works. 

IKON  IIAKI>. 

Ponder,  workers  !  ponder  ! 
God  gave  equal  cartli  to  mortals, 
Ere  they  crossed  fair  Eden's  portals : — 
Where's  the  ancient  law  that  foretells 

Mortal  slavery  ?    Ponder ! 

Answer,  workers  !  answer  ! 
Have  the  woes  which  ye  are  bearing, 
Have  the  chains  your  limbs  are  wearing. 
Palsied  all  the  hope  and  daring 

Of  your  spirits  ?    Answer ! 

Listen,  workers  !  listen  ! 
Earth  is  yours — the  broad,  wide  guerdon 
Given  to  man  with  life's  first  burden ; — 
God  hath  set  his  seal  and  word  on 

Man's  true  title.    Listen ! 


Ponder,  workers !  ponder ! 
Hold  this  truth  within  your  keeping. 
Till  the  harvest  you  are  reaping : — 
God  is  landlord,  and  unsleeping 
Watches  o'er  you.    Ponder ! 

i37 

^  


Duganne.  ^ 


IRON  HARP. 


HEART  AND  SOUL. 


0  HUMAN  heart !  by  weary  sorrow  withered — 
0  soul !  in  darkness  to  oblivion  groping ; — 
Why  are  ye  now  no  longer  bravely  hoping  ? 
Why  is  the  mighty  will  so  chained  and  tethered  ? 
Answer  me,  Heart  and  Soul. 

Alas !  we  dare  not  with  our  curses  wrestle, 

Each  abject  thought  in  willing  slavery  crouches: 

Alas  !  men  sleep  while  woes  among  them  nestle — 
N^estle,  like  snakes,  within  their  very  couches. 

O  human  heart !  these  woes  are  not  forever — 
0  human  soul !  gird  on  thy  holy  armor : 
Ye  may  dissolve  the  spell  and  foil  the  charmer ; 

Ye  may  at  once  each  rusted  shackle  sever. 

Why  weep,  then.  Heart  and  Soul  ? 

'Tis  that  the  sons  of  men  in  crime  are  suckled — 
Infants  in  years  are  dotards  in  deceiving : 
Sorrows,  like  leeches,  to  men's  hearts  are  cleaving — 

Want,  like  a  slave-chain,  on  the  soul  is  buckled. 

O  human  heart !  to  thee  hath  Hope  been  given ; 

O  human  soul !  thy  purpose  ne'er  should  falter : 
Trust  that  the  flame  of  Love  shall  fall  from  Heaven — 
Fall  and  illume  Truth's  long-benighted  altar ! 
Hope  ye  still.  Heart  and  Soul ! 
138 


Poetical  Works. 


IRON  HARl'. 


TRUST  IN  GOD, 


FA  THER  in  heaven !  my  spirit  knew  Thee  not ! 

But  when  the  fearful  storm,  that  wrecked  my  heart, 
Beat  round  the  fortress  of  my  life,  and  wrought 
My  brain  to  madness — and  the  poisoned  dart 
Of  hopeless  grief  (uncured,  unreached  by  art) 
Was  rusting  in  my  soul, — my  maddened  thought. 
Concentrate,  burst  its  bonds,  and  its  Creator  sought. 

Thee,  God !  I  saw.    My  spirit-eyes  looked  out, 
And  (through  the  cloud-veil  of  the  world)  beheld 

The  throned  and  radiant  Conqueror  of  Doubt : 
The  mists  of  human  passion  were  dispelled — 
My  soul  shook  off  the  terror  that  had  quelled 

The  life  within  it,  and,  in  joy  devout, 

Echoed  the  seraph-song,  and  swelled  the  triumph-shout. 

Mysterious  God !  my  spirit  looked  on  Thee  ! 
Thee — the  Eternal !  High  !  Unchangeable ! 

Back,  through  the  vista  of  eternity. — 
All  that  the  soul's  imaginings  might  tell 
I  saw,  and  leaped,  rejoicing,  from  the  spell 

That  bound  me  in  my  mortal  destiny. — 

My  soul  forsook  its  chains,  in  its  Creator  free ! 


Duganne. 


IRON  HARP. 


GOD  AND  MAN. 


LET  nature  judge  !    Are  all  things  right? 

Or  is  the  Present  wrong  ? 
Why  are  there  wo,  and  shame,  and  blight, 

To  paralyze  my  song  ? 

My  soul  would  wind  itself  in  love 

Around  all  human  things ! — 
For  struggling  man  to  mount  above, 

My  songs  should  be  as  wings ! 

Why  do  the  outcast  crowd  my  path, 

And  fasten  on  my  heart  ? 
Why  do  the  vicious  wake  my  wrath. 

Or  cause  my  tears  to  start  ? 

It  is  not  right !    I  ask  ye  all, — 

As  God  is  just  and  wise, — 
Why  vice  still  holds  mankind  in  thrall  ? 

Why  virtue,  struggling,  dies  ? 

Man  on  his  brother's  heart  hath  trod — 

Man  is  man's  mortal  foe ; 
Man  is  antagonist  to  God  ! — 

This  only  do  I  know. 

God  help  us !  we  have  threescore  years 

And  ten,  at  most,  to  live — 
And  yet  we  scatter  griefs  and  tears ! — 
We  pray — yet  ne'er  forgive  ! 


Poetical  Works. 


OUR  MOTHER  EARTH. 

WHENCE  arise  the  springs  that  nourish 

All  Creation  from  its  birth  ? 
Whence  spring  up  the  oaks,  and  flourish  ? — 

From  the  Earth — our  mother  Earth ! 
Where  are  gems  and  crystals  hidden  ? 

Where  are  ores  of  wondrous  worth  ? 
Whence  are  fire  and  heat  upbidden  ? — 

From  the  Earth — our  mother  Earth ! 

Whence  arise  the  green  oases, 

In  the  desert's  sandy  dearth  ? 
What  is  life's  support  and  basis  ? 

'Tis  the  Earth— our  mother  Earth ! 
Bread,  and  fire,  and  crystal  water — 

All  within  our  being's  girth : 
Gold  and  gems,  to  those  who  sought  her, — 

Hath  she  given — mother  Earth ! 

She  is  Mankind's  nurse  and  servant — 

Still  our  mother  and  our  slave : 
Still  the  same,  in  labor  fervent, 

From  our  birth-day  to  our  grave ! 
Kever  yet  hath  God  ordained  her 

To  be  trodden  by  the  few ! 
Grasping  lords  have  but  profaned  her  ; 
And  their  crime  they  yet  shall  rue ! 


Duganne. 


IRON  HARP. 


Like  the  seed  within  her  bosom, 


Sleeps  a  future,  yet,  of  Eight ! — 
Man  shall  see  his  hopes  in  blossom  ! 

Man  shall  yet  reveal  his  might ! 
Then,  no  one,  above  another, 

Shall  assert  his  nobler  birth ; 
But  each  man  shall  share  his  mother — 

Share  his  glorious  mother — Earth ! 


THE  UNSOLD  LANDS. 


A  BILLION  oi  acres  of  unsold  landQ 

Are  lying  in  grievous  dearth ; 
And  millions  of  men  in  the  image  of  God 

Are  starving — all  over  the  earth  ! 
Oh !  tell  me,  ye  sons  of  America  ! 

How  much  men's  lives  are  worth ! 

Ten  hundred  millions  of  acres  good, 
That  never  knew  spade  nor  plough  ; — 

And  a  million  of  souls,  in  our  goodly  land, 
Are  pining  in  want,  I  trow : 

And  orphans  are  crying  for  bread  this  day, 
And  widows  in  misery  bow ! 


Poetical  Works. 

IRON  IIAUI*. 

To  whom  do  these  acres  of  land  belong  ? 

And  why  do  they  thriftless  lie  ? 
And  why  is  the  widow's  lament  unheard — 

And  stifled  the  orphan's  cry  ? 
And  why  are  the  poor-house  and  jail  so  full — 

And  the  gallows-tree  built  high  ? 

Those  millions  of  acres  belong  to  Man ! 

And  his  claim  is — that  he  needs  ! 
And  his  title  is  sealed  by  the  hand  of  God — 

Our  God !  who  the  raven  feeds : 
And  the  starving  soul  of  each  famished  man 

At  the  throne  of  justice  pleads  ! 

Ye  may  not  heed  it,  ye  haughty  men, 
Whose  hearts  as  rocks  are  cold ! — 

But  the  time  will  come  when  the  fiat  of  God 
In  thunder  shall  be  told ! 

For  the  voice  of  the  great  I  AM  hath  said, 
That  "  the  land  shall  not  be  sold !" 

EPIGRAM. 

"  God  help  me !"  cried  the  Poor  Man : 

And  the  Ricb  Man  said,  "  Amen  !" 
And  the  Poor  Man  died  at  the  Rich  Man's  door : — 

God  helped  the  Poor  Man  then ! 


'A^   Duganne.   ^^^j^sM^^ 


THE  LANDLESS, 


TirU  landless !  the  landless  ! 

The  wrestlers  for  a  crust — 
Behold  to  outer  darkness 

These  wretched  men  are  thrust. 
I  hear  their  sullen  moanings ; 

Their  curses  low  and  deep ; 
And  I  see  their  bodies  writhing 

Like  a  maniac  in  his  sleep ! 
Will  no  lightning  rend  their  fetters  ? 

Will  no  sunbeam  pierce  their  eyes  ?■ 
In  the  name  of  truth  and  manhood, 

Will  they  never — never  rise  ? 

The  landless  !  the  landless  ! 

They  have  no  household  gods : 
Their  father's  graves  are  trampled — 

For  strangers  own  the  sods. 
They  have  no  home  nor  country — 

Ko  roof  nor  household  hearth, — 
Though  all  around  them  blossometh 

The  beautiful  glad  earth  ! 
They  fight  a  stranger's  battles. 

And  they  build  a  stranger's  dome- 
But  the  landless ! — the  landless  ! 

God  help  them  ! — have  no  home  ! 
144 


15-^  "^Tf 


Poetical  Works. 


HOMES  FOR  THE  HOMELESS. 


HOMES  for  the  homeless ! 

Our  prayers  still  rise  : 
Justice  is  faithful — 

And  Truth  never  dies. 
Roses  for  nettles, 

And  plenty  for  dearth  ; 
Homes  for  the  homeles^^, 

On  God's  free  earth. 


Homes  for  the  orphan — 

The  widow  forlorn ; 
Homes  for  the  exile — 

Where'er  he  was  born. 
Give  us,  O  country  ! 

Our  right  to  the  soil : — 
Earth  shall  be  gladsome 

With  generous  toil. 

Homes  for  the  homeless — 

Who  famish  for  bread — 
Earth  for  the  living. 

And  earth  for  the  dead. 
Give  us  our  birthright, 

O  tyrannous  gold ! 
The  land  is  our  charter — 

It  shall  not  be  sold ! 

U5 


Duganne. 


^EON  HARP. 


f 


THE   ACRES   AND   THE  HANDS. 

''THE  earth  is  the  Lord's,  aud  the  fulness  thereof," 

Said  Grod's  most  holy  word : — 
The  water  hath  fish,  and  the  land  hath  flesh, 


And  the  soil  is  teeming  o'er  all  the  earth, 

And  the  earth  has  numberless  lands ; 
Yet  millions  of  hands  want  acres — 
While  millions  of  acres  want  hands  ! 

Sunlight,  and  breezes,  and  gladsome  flowers, 

Are  over  the  earth  spread  wide ; 
And  the  good  God  gave  these  gifts  to  men — 

To  men  who  on  earth  abide : 
Yet  thousands  are  toiUng  in  poisonous  gloom, 
And  shackled  with  iron  bands, — 
While  millions  of  hands  want  acres — 
And  millions  of  acres  want  hands  ! 

Never  a  foot  hath  the  poor  man  here. 


And  never  a  plot  where  his  child  may  cull 


The  soil  lies  fallow — the  woods  grow  rank ; 
Yet  idle  the  poor  man  stands  ! 
Oh!  millions  of  hands  want  acres — 


And  the  air  hath  many  a  bird ; 


To  plant  with  a  grain  of  corn  ; 


Fresh  flowers  in  the  dewy  morn. 


And  onillions  of  acres  want  hands  ! 


Poetical  Works. 



IKON'  KAIll*. 

'Tis  writ,  that  "yo  shall  not  muzzle  the  ox 

That  treadcth  out  the  corn !" 
But  behold!  ye  shackle  the  poor  man's  hands, 
That  have  all  earth's  burdens  borne  ! 
The  LAND  is  the  gift  of  a  bounteous  God — 

And  TO  LABOR  his  word  commands, — 
Yet  millions  of  hands  want  acres — 
And  millions  of  acres  want  hands  ! 

Who  hath  ordained  that  the  Few  should  hoard 

Their  millions  of  useless  gold  ? — 
And  rob  the  earth  of  its  fruits  and  flowers, 

While  profitless  soil  they  hold  ? 
Who  hath  ordained  that  a  parchment  scroll 
Shall  fence  round  miles  of  lands, — 
When  millions  of  hands  want  acres — 
And  millions  of  acres  want  hands  ! 


'Tis  a  glaring  lie  on  the  face  of  day — 
This  robbery  of  men's  rights ! 
'Tis  a  lie,  that  the  word  of  the  Lord  disowns — 

'Tis  a  curse  that  burns  and  blights! 
And  'twill  burn  and  blight  till  the  people  rise. 

And  swear,  while  they  break  their  bands 
That  the  hands  shall  henceforth  have  acres, 
And  the  acres  henceforth  have  hands  ! 


»47 


KEEP  IT  BEFORE  THE  PEOPLE — 

That  the  earth  was  made  for  man ! 

That  flowers  were  strown, 

And  fruits  were  grown, 
To  bless  and  never  to  ban ; 

That  sun  and  rain, 

And  corn  and  grain. 
Are  yours  and  mine,  my  brother ! — 

Free  gifts  from  heaven, 

And  freely  given. 
To  one  as  well  as  another ! 


Keep  it  before  the  people — 

That  man  is  the  image  of  God  ! 
His  limbs  or  soul 
Ye  may  not  control 

With  shackle,  or  shame,  or  rod ! 
We  may  not  be  sold, 
For  silver  or  gold : 

Neither  you  nor  I,  my  brother ! 
For  Freedom  was  given, 
By  God  from  heaven, 

To  one  as  well  as  another ! 


Poetical  Works. 


Keep  it  before  the  people — 


That  famine,  and  crime,  and  wo, 
Forever  abide, 
Still  side  by  side. 


With  luxury's  dazzling  show; 

That  Lazarus  crawls 

From  Dives'  halls. 
And  starves  at  his  gate,  my  brother ! — 

Yet  Life  was  given, 

By  God  from  heaven, 
To  one  as  well  as  another ! 

Keep  it  before  the  people — 
That  the  laborer  claims  his  meed : 
The  right  of  Soil, 
And  the  right  to  toil. 
From  spur  and  bridle  freed ; 
The  right  to  bear. 
And  the  right  to  share, 
With  you  and  me,  my  brother ! — 
Whatever  is  given. 
By  God  from  heaven. 
To  one  as  well  as  another ! 


Duganne. 


THE  POOR  MAN  S  FATHERLAND, 


WHERE  is  the  Poor  Man's  Fatherland  ? 

Is 't  where  his  sire  was  wed  ? 
Is  't  where  his  mother,  with  gentle  hand, 

His  infant  footsteps  led  ? 
N'ot  so,  not  so !  he  kno,weth  well 
That  strangers  now  in  that  old  home  dwell. 

Where  is  the  poor  man's  Fatherland  ? 

Is 't  where  his  childhood  passed  ? 
Is 't  where,  like  river  o'er  golden  sand. 

His  gladsome  youth  fled  fast  ? 
N"ot  so,  not  so !  wo  worth  the  day ! 
He  wanders  far  from  those  scenes  away. 

I  "Where  is  the  poor  man's  Fatherland? 

Is 't  where  he  toils  and  strives  ? 
Is 't  where  he  heareth  a  lord's  command, 

Or  weareth  pauper  gyves  ? 
Not  so,  not  so !  his  master's  will 
^\  May  cast  him  forth — as  a  wanderer  still. 


Poetical  Works, 


IRON  HARl*, 


Truly  he  hath  no  Fatherland  ! 

On  all  this  wide,  wide  earth ; 
In  life  he  dwelleth  by  penury  banned, 

An  alien  from  his  birth ; 
And  dead,  he  hath  no  rood  of  ground — 
Not  even  the  space  of  a  churchyard  mound ! 


Truly,  0  Lord  !  why  tarriest  thou  ? 

Thy  children,  suffering,  wait : 
Their  bread  is  eaten  by  sweat  of  brow. 

Within  the  stranger's  gate. 
Yet  hope  they  still — those  alien  Poor ; 
Thy  Word  for  them  is  a  Promise  sure. 

Surely  thou  seest  a  sparrow  fall. 
And  hearest  the  raven's  cry ! 

And  all  the  millions  who  dwell  in  thrall, 
Beneath  thy  mercies  lie. 

With  brow  erect  they  soon  shall  stand. 

And  all  the  earth  be  their  Fatherland  ! 


Duganne. 


IRON  HARP. 


WHO  OWNETH  AMERICa's  SOIL. 


WHO  owneth  America's  soil  ? 
Is  it  he  who  graspeth  the  hard  red  gold ; 
Whose  glittering  gains  are  by  millions  told ; 
Who  bindeth  his  slaves  to  the  woof  and  loom, 
And  chain  eth  their  souls  in  a  living  tomb, — 


Who  shieldeth  America's  land  ? 
Is  it  he  who  counteth  his  ships  by  scores ; 
Who  plucketh  his  gains  from  a  thousand  shores ; 
Who  buyeth  and  selleth,  and  worketh  not, 
And  holdeth  in  pride  what  by  fraud  he  got — 


Who  guardeth  America's  right? 
Is  it  he  who  eateth  the  orphan's  bread, 
And  crusheth  the  poor  with  his  grinding  tread ; 
Who  flingeth  his  bank-note  lies  abroad. 
And  buildeth  to  worship  a  golden  god. 


The  tomb  of  hopeless  toil  ? 
ITot  he,  not  he — by  Heaven ! 


With  hard  and  griping  hand  ? 
!N"ot  he,  not  he — by  Heaven  ! 


A  shrine  to  Mammon's  might  ? 
Kot  he,  not  he — by  Heaven  ! 


1 


Poetical  Works. 


IRON  IIAIll* 


Not  these,  not  tlicsc — by  Heaven ! 
But  to  those  who  labor  for  God  and  Man  ; 
W\io  work  their  part  in  the  world's  great  plan, — 
Wlio  plant  good  seed  in  the  desert's  dearth, 
And  bring  forth  treasures  from  brave  old  Earth ; 
To  these  the  soil  is  given — 
To  these,  to  these — by  Heaven  ! 

To  these  must  the  soil  belong : 
To  the  men  of  all  climes  whose  souls  are  true — 
Or  Pagan,  or  Christian,  or  Turk,  or  Jew  ; 
To  the  men  who  will  hallow  our  glorious  soil — 
The  millions  who  hope,  and  the  millions  who  toil 
For  the  Eight  against  the  Wrong : 
To  these  shall  the  soil  be  given — 
To  these,  to  these — by  Heaven 


'53 


IRON  HARP, 


EPODE. 


1^0  W  Heaven's  eternal  stars,  like  fires, 
Gleam  through  the  wintry  sky ! 
I  lift  mine  Iron  Harp  on  high — 
I  strike  the  last  stroke  on  these  wires, 
While  sad  winds  hurry  by. 

My  task  is  not  yet  done, — but  Kight 
Gloometh  around  my  brow : 
I  struggle  with  my  fate,  yet  bow ! 

I  murmur  not — for,  high  and  bright, 
Those  stars  shine  on  me  now ! 

Those  stars  are  signs  that  still  on  earth, 

Flashing  amid  our  shames. 
And  shining  forth  like  altar-flames, 
Are  loving  hearts  and  souls  of  worth, 

With  high  and  glorious  names. 

Still  golden  harpings  heavenward  float — 
Wing-like  to  lift  his  soul — 
From  HIM  whose  brook-like  feelings  stole 
Through  music,  like  a  dove's  low  note, 
Where  Harvard's  waters  roll. 
154 


Poetical  Works. 


lUON  HA  III'. 


Still  Lowell  clasps,  like  cherub  strong, 


Lovingly  clasps  his  lyre  ; 
And  flashes  forth  his  heart  of  fire, 
And  rolls  the  river  of  his  song 
In  fountains  from  each  wire. 

Still  Whittier,  with  high  purpose  fraught, 

Toileth  in  Freedom's  war : 
His  harp-strings  are  the  chains  he  tore 
From  slaves,  where  rings  his  iron  thought, 

Like  hammer-strokes  of  Thor. 

Too  long  the  Poet's  falchion  bright 
Sheathed  in  gold  had  slept ! 
The  L'on  Blade  hath  fitly  leapt ; 

And  now  for  Human  Euth  and  Right 
All  Harps  shall  soon  be  swept. 


Duganne, 


NOTES 

TO 

Qri)c  Iron  ^arp. 


(1)  Labor  hath  raised  its  Voice. 
Are  not  the  "  Crystal  Palaces"  and  "  Indus- 
trial Exhibitions"  of  the  present  era  to  be  re- 
garded as  the  mute  assertions  of  Labor's  claim 
to  consideration  ? 

(2)  Out  of  the  Strong  comes  Sweetness  

And  he  said  unto  them.  Out  of  the  eater  came 
forth  meat,  and  out  of  the  strong  came  forth 
sweetness.  And  they  could  not  in  three  days 
expound  the  riddle.— Jwd^cs  xiv.  14. 

(3)  Shall  be  regained  by  Edom. 
And  Esau  said  to  Jacob,  Feed  me,  I  pray  thee, 
•with  that  same  red  pottage;  for  I  am  faint: 
therefore  was  his  name  called  Edom.  And 
Jacob  said,  Sell  me  this  day  thy  birthright.— 
Genesis  xxv.  30,  31. 


(4)  Gracchus  !  first  martyr  ■ 


Tib.  Semp.  Gracchus,  a  noble  Roman,  stimu- 
lated by  the  abject  condition  of  the  low  er  classes 
of  Roman  citizens,  attempted  to  revive  a  modi- 
fication of  the  Licinian  law,  in  total  contempt 
of  which  the  patricians  and  men  of  opulence  had, 
by  a  series  of  usurpations,  appropriated  to  them- 


selves all  the  public  lands.  This  excited  the 
bitter  resentment  of  the  patrician  party,  by  a 
faction  of  whom  he  was  finally  assassinated. — 
Plutarch  Vit.  Gracch. 

(5)  Listen  to  the  heart  of  old  Pan  

Pan— the  principle  of  universal  naturp,  as  im- 

bodied  in  the  Greek  and  Roman  mythology. 

(6)  There's  an  Anteros  somewhere  . 

Anteros  is  the  god  of  mutual  love  and  tender- 
ness—whom Eros  is  continually  seeking.  When 
Venus  complained  that  her  son  Cupid  always 
seemed  a  child,  she  was  told  that  if  he  had  a 
brother,  he  would  grow  up  in  a  short  space  of 
time.  As  soon  as  Anteros  was  born,  Cupid  felt 
his  strength  increase  and  his  wings  enlarge,  but 
if  ever  his  brother  was  away  from  him,  he  found 
himself  reduced  to  his  ancient  shape.  From 
this  circumstance  it  is  seen  that  return  of 
passion  gives  vigor  to  love.— Ctc.  de  Nat. 

(7)  "The  United  States  claim  more  than 
1,000,000,000  acres  of  unsettled  lands."— Senate 
Document,  416.  XXIXth  Congress,  (last  ses- 
sion.) 


•5« 


A 


"  Lend  me  your  ears. 

Shaespeare. 


TO 

James  Lesley,  Jr. 


OF  PHILADELPHIA, 


AS  AN  ACKNOWLEDGMENT  OF  APPRECIATION, 


IS  DEDICATED  BY 


MOTLEY  MANNERS,  Esq. 


Parnassus  in  pinopg. 


THOU  who  wMlome,  with  unsparing  jibe 
And  scorching  satire,  lashed  the  scrib- 
bling tribe ; 
Thou,  who  on  Koman  pimp  and  parasite 
Didst  pour  the  vials  of  thy  righteous  spite ; — 
Imperial  Horace  !  let  thy  task  be  mine — 
Let  truth  and  justice  sanctify  my  line ! 

And  thou !  relentless  Draco  of  the  schools, 

"Whose  laws  were  scored  upon  the  backs  of  fools ! — 

Thou  bi-tongued  genius,  from  whose  magic  lips 

Poison  for  knaves,  for  good  men  honey,  drips  ! 

Thou  Poet-Lacon,  withering  with  a  verb. 

And  reining  folly  with  a  figure's  curb, — 

Thou  of  the  Dunciad  !  animate  my  strain ; 

For  vain  my  task  if  'tis  not  in  thy  vein ! 

159 


Duganne. 


PARNASSUS  IN  PILLORY. 


As  in  some  butcher's  barricaded  stall, 
W    A  thousand  prisoned  rats  gnaw,  squeak,  and  crawl 


While  at  the  entrance,  held  by  stalwart  hands, 
A  panting  terrier  strives  to  burst  his  bands  ; — 
With  eyes  inflamed  and  glittering  teeth  displayed, 
Half  turns  to  bite  the  hand  by  which  he's  stayed  ; — 
So  writhes  and  pants  my  terrier  muse  to  chase 
The  rats  of  letters  from  creation's  face. 


Far  scurvier  vermin  these,  my  biped  game : 

Rats  gnaw  but  books — these  gnaw  the  author's  fame ; 

Holding  Parnassus  as  a  mammoth  cheese. 

Which,  climbing  not,  they  nibble  as  they  please ; 

And  plying  tooth  and  claw  so  fast  and  well. 

That  the  whole  mount  is  like  a  hollow  shell. 

Pharaoh  was  plagued  with  locusts  for  his  crimes — 

Happy  was  Pharaoh  to  escape  our  times : 

When  myriad  insects,  plumed  with  pens  of  steel. 

Buzz  like  some  thrifty  housewife's  ceaseless  wheel — 

Buzz,  but  beyond  the  buzz  all  likeness  dwindles. 

Save  that  their  brains  be  warps,  their  legs  be  spindles. 


Down,  terrier,  down !  we'll  drop  the  canine  form, 

And  incarnate  the  buzzing  insect-swarm. 

c^y     Let  us  invoke  the  Bards — as  once,  in  Wales, 

^    King  Edward  did — from  mountains,  swamps,  and  vales ; 

1 60 


^^^QjLn^       Poetical  Works. 


I'AUNAHSUH   IN  FII.LOIIY. 


Convened  tlicni  nil,  then  broke  each  liarp  and  head:(^) 
(Would  that  0U7'  bards  had  such  a  wise  King  Ned !) 
Let  us  invoke  them — and,  as  up  they  spring, 
Shoot  them,  as  boys  shoot  crows  upon  the  wing : 
Then  shall  their  death-songs  poetize  the  blast, 
Like  dying  swan-notes — sweet,  because  the  last. 

Ah  !  vain  to  strive — inglorious  to  succeed — 
To  scotch  the  snake,  yet  not  destroy  its  breed ; 
Small  is  the  gain  when  for  each  foe  that  falls, 
A  foe  more  mischievous  mine  eyes  appals ; 
Thus  when  the  hydra's  heads  were  struck  to  earth, 
The  dust  that  formed  them  gave  them  fresher  birth. 
Ah,  gentle  muse  !  if  e'er,  with  ardent  fii^e, 
Thou  seek'st  to  gild  our  cis-atlantic  lyre, 
How  must  thy  lips  with  heavenly  satire  smile, 
To  note  the  hands  which  now  that  harp  defile ! 
How  must  thy  gaze,  as  o'er  our  glorious  landscape 
It  roves,  (from  Florida's  far  reef  to  Ann's  cape,) — 
How  must  it  blink,  to  mark  the  frenzied  eyes 
Of  myriad  bards  clairvoyant  through  the  skies  ! 
Oh,  hapless  land  of  mine  !  whose  country-presses 
Labor  with  poets  and  with  poetesses ; 
Where  Helicon  is  quaffed  like  beer  at  table, 
And  Pegasus  is  "hitched"  in  every  stable; 
Where  each  smart  dunce  presumes  to  print  a  journal, 
And  every  journalist  is  dubbed  a  "  colonel ;" 


i6i 


/O 


Duganne.  (r-sr-f 
^  -^^B^ 


PARNASSUS  IN  PILLORY. 


Where  lovesick  girls  on  chalk  and  charcoal  thrive, 
And  prove  (by  singing)  they're  unfit  to  wive ; 
Where  Gray  might  Miltons  by  the  score  compute — 
"Inglorious"  all,  but,  ah!  by  no  means  "mute." 

And  whom  to  pounce  on  first — 0  vengeful  muse  ? 
Faith!  they're  so  near  alike,  'tis  hard  to  choose. 
A  stereotyped  and  ancient  form  they  bear — 
Like  sheepskin  smallclothes  of  a  century's  wear. 
Jack  Ketch,  wben  felons  are  about  to  die, 
Divides  their  garments — but  so  will  not  I : 
Though  rainbow-hued,  like  Joseph's  coat,  their  dress 
(Should  all  exchange)  could  scarce  fit  each  one  less : 
Each  eyes  his  fellow's  garb  with  crafty  glare — 
Some  well-known  patch  he  recognises  there : 
Some  button,  stolen  where  he  stole  his  own — 
Some  diamond  brooch,  with  ostentation  shown, 
Whicb  he  will  swear  is  paste,  and,  in  a  trice, 
Prove  that  he  bought  one  like  it,  at  half-price. 
Motley  and  mean  in  truth  these  bipeds  be — 
A  scurvier  set  ne'er  marched  through  Coventry. 
And,  what  inflames  mine  anger  as  I  gaze. 
His  stolen  shreds  each  knave  with  pride  displays : 
This  one  wears  breeches  that  might  make  his  shroud — 
This  in  a  child's  caul  his  huge  head  would  crowd ; 
This  dabbles  daintily  with  French  fahrique— 
This  wears  a  helmet  o'er  his  visage  sleek: 

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Vv/-?  Poetical  Works. 


I'ARNAa.SUS  IN  1MI,K()KV. 


All  stolen — all  misused,  and  brought  to  waste!  va^' 
Gods  !  if  they  must  thieve,  why  not  thieve  with  taste?  \ 

But,  hold!  arc  these  in  truth  Columbia's  bards? — 
Do  sueh  assume  the  muse's  high  regards  ? 
Arc  there  no  souls  where  loud  Niagara  roars  ? — 
No  hearts  on  Mississippi's  sounding  shores  ? 
Are  there  no  ears  where  tempests  rend  the  skies  ? — 
No  eyes  where  forests  gleam  with  myriad  dyes  ? 
No  harps  where  every  air  is  melody  ? — 
Are  there  no  songs  where  every  voice  is  free  ? 

List,  0  my  muse  !  amid  the  jargon  dire 
Of  screeching  voice  and  worse  than  tuneless  lyre ; 
'Mid  all  the  din  which  racks  our  addled  brains, 
I  hear  the  rippling  rivers  of  sweet  strains : 
I  hear  where,  trembling  through  the  leafy  glen, 
The  poet's  soul  talks  melody  with  men  : 
I  feel  when  Bryant — in  his  dreamy  youth — 
Anoints  my  heart  with  loveliness  and  truth: 
I  thrill  with  Halleck's  ancient  clasp  of  fire. 
And  bow  my  heart  to  '^Harvard's"  earlier  lyre ;  Q 
While  clarion  sounds  that  swing  beneath  the. stars, 
And  crashing  thoughts,  like  battling  scimitars. 
Roll  round  me  from  the  mighty  harps  of  those 
Whose  songs  are  victories  over  Freedom's  foes. 

Well,  well !  it  may  be  that,  amid  the  masses 
Who  in  our  journals  write  themselves  down  asses : 

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Duganne. 

PARNASSUS  IN  PILLORY. 

It  may  be  there  exist  some  score  or  better 
Of  bards  as  well  in  spirit  as  in  letter. 
With  these  I've  naught  to  do — or,  if  I  scan  them, 
To  prove  they've  brains,  it  needs  be  I  trepan  them. 
I  come  here  as  a  critic — as  a  satirist — 
And  if  I  argue  right  or  wrong,  whose  matter  is't? 
"  Norfolk  !  we  must  have  knocks  I" — so,  who's  not  equal 
To  the  encounter,  may  regret  the  sequel ! 


Poetry  has  its  "amateurs" — who  wile 
Their  listless  leisure  with  the  muse's  smile  ; 
Who  simper  sweetly  in  a  Milton's  tongue, 
And  lisp  the  lofty  themes  that  Homer  sung : 
Merely  for  pastime — really  but  in  sport — 
To  "try  the  hand" — or  "keep  it  in" — in  short, 
To  show  that  if  their  own  fame  they  had  built  on. 
Homer  had  superseded  been,  and  Milton. 


Our  country  swarms  with  bards  who've  "crossed  the 
water," 

And  think  their  native  land  earth's  meanest  quarter. 
Bards  who  have  heard  the  gondoliers  sing  Tasso, 
Seen  Arabs  eat,  and  Indians  throw  the  lasso ; 
Bards  who  have  travelled,  and  of  course  must  know 
All  sorts  of  flowers  that  on  Parnassus  grow. 
Your  "graceful  poets"  these — your  "versifiers," 
Whose  garlands  are  all  roses  and  no  briers ; 

i6± 


Poetical  Works. 


I'AllNASSl.S  IN  I'llXOKY. 

Who  steam  to  Havre — take  the  Rhone  or  Rhine; 
Ascend  Mont  Bhme  lialf-way — then  stop  and  dine  ; 
Muse  (just  like  Byron)  on  the  Bridge  of  Sighs  ; 
Quote  Rogers  freely ;  prate  of  gohlen  skies ; 
Eat  maccaroni ;  ask  where  "  Peter's  keys"  are  ;(^) 
Find  out  what's  meant  by  "  dead  as  Julius  Cuesar ;" 
Take  notes  (on  railroads)  of  tlie  towns  they  ride 
through, 

(Until  they  get   the   "Traveller's   Pocket  Guide" 
through,) — 

Then  home  return,  and  (may  the  gods  forgive  them  !) 
Print  books  whose  leather  shall  at  least  outlive  them. 

These  good  men  are  not  dangerous — no  !  far  from  it, 
Though  each  esteems  himself  a  star  or  comet. 
And,  faith,  their  muse  describes  eccentric  orbits. 
As  if  her  Pegasus  had  need  of  jawbits  ; 
With  foreign  airs  their  sales  are  best  inflated ; 
Pufis  are  they  sure  of  who  w^ith  wind  are  freighted ; 
Truly  your  travelled  bard  is  fortune's  favorite — 
He  sees  the  world,  and  makes  the  public  pay  for  it. 

The  Public — huge,  half-reasoning,  like  an  elephant, 
Of  its  own  good  is  half  the  time  irrelevant ; 
It  takes  on  trust  a  book  that  Griswold(^)  edits, 
And  quarterly  reviews  like  gospel  credits  ; 
It  hath  an  ostrich  maw,  and  can  digest 
Sticks,  stocks,  and  stones,  and  all  with  equal  zest ; 

165 


Duganne. 

 —  ■  — 


PARNASSUS  IN  PILLORY. 


^      It  seeks  like  mad  the  "  trial"  of  some  bishop  ;  ^ 
^       For  Harper's  pictured  "Bible,"  throngs  it  Jiis  shop ; 
Swallows  "John  Donkey's"  sad  attempts  at  humor, 
And  thinks  Frost's  books  as  wise  as  those  of  iN'uma. 

But  revenons  d  nos  moutons — that's  sheep — 
Return  we  to  our — bards — who've  crossed  the  deep  : 
Our  travel-poets — whom  we  well  may  call  so, 
For  he  who  reads  their  travels,  travails  also ; 
Our  cognoscenti,  whom  we  all  should  follow, 
As  cousin s-german  to  the  real  Apollo  ; 
Whose  muse,  in  corkscrew  curls  and  boddice  waist, 
Waltzes  or  polks,  by  finger-tips  embraced ; 
While,  with  her  nose  retroussee  and  most  haughty. 
She  lisps — "Now,  Mister  Writer,  don't  be  naughty!" 


What  time  Kat.  Willis,  in  the  daily  papers, 
Published  receipts  of  shoemakers  and  drapers  ;(^) 
What  time,  in  sooth,  his  "Mirror"  flashed  its  rays. 
Like  Barnum's  "Drummond"  on  the  Broadway  gaze; 
When  lisping  misses,  'fresh  from  seminaries. 
Worshipped  "mi-boy"  and  " brigadier" (*^)  as  lares; 
When  youngsters  mad — {scrihendi  cacoetJies) 
Found  that  Castalia's  stream  was  drugged  like  Lethe's: 
Then  Bayard  Taylor^) — (protege  of  i^atty) 
Dixon-like,  "walked"  into  the  "literati;" 
And  first  to  proper  use  his  genius  put. 
Like  ballet-girls,  by  showing  "Views  a-Foot." 

i66 

"SrQ^^y^    -^NS-' 


Poetical  Works. 

^^y^-Gvsk^    •j>ya-(j 


I'ARNASMIIH  IN  I'lLLOKY. 


Taylor's  a  pusliiiii^  {ind  industrious  youth, 
And  so  deserves — tliiit  I  sliould  tell  the  truth; 
I  wish  him  well,  and  own  that  I'm  not  sorry  at 
His  premium  hit,  as  Barnum's  poet-laureate  ;(^) 
(I  wish  all  hards  might  win  reward  so  aureate) — 
If  the  high  station  suits  his  muse,  why  let  it — 
And  for  the  prize — I'm  glad  tliat  he  did  get  it! 
Taylor's  a  youth  of  promise  and  good  sense, 
But  for  his  genius — "  it's  no  consequence  !" 
He'll  do  to  oscillate  (when  the  air  quite  still  is,) 
'Twixt  Horace-Greeley  and  Maecenas- Willis. 
His  "knapsack"  yarn,  however,  is  worth  unravelling, 
By  all  who'd  learn  the  cheapest  modes  of  travelling: 
'Tis  snug,  as  down  the  glorious  Rhine  one  floats, 
To  know  one's  passage  only  costs  ten  groats ; 
'Tis  nice,  while  viewing  St.  Peter's,  to  be  told  I 
Can  get  good  buttered  buns  for  just  two  soldi ; 
So  Taylor's  muse  presents  a  phj^siognomj^ 
Invaluable — to  lovers  of  economy. 

Here's  TuckermanQ — calm,  sentimental,  placid — 
A  Roman  punch  without  the  strength  or  acid. 
While  Taylor  cheapens  fares  and  prices  lava, 
TucKERMAN  at  "La  Scala"  murmurs  "braval" 
A  delicate  muse  is  his — genteel,  exclusive — 
Marvelling,  no  doubt,  why  critics  are  abusive ; 
'Tis  vulgar  (as  Lord  Chesterfield  admonished) 
To  let  folks  see  us  startled  or  astonished ; 

167 

QS^e^    .^^^ 


Duganne. 

PARNASSUS  IX  I'lLLORY. 

^    And  T.,  (a  well-bred,  gentlemanly  poet,) 
If  he  has  feeling,  never  lets  us  know  it. 
He  sees  Niagara,  and  says — "I  declare  !" 
Applauds  a  thunder-storm,  with — "Pretty  fair!" 
Reads  Milton  listlessly,  with  half-closed  lids, 
(And  wonders  if  the  devil  wore  white  kids :) 
Likes  us  to  know  that  he  has  been  to  Italy — 
Thinks  that  Vesuvius  does  eruptions  prettily ; 
Whistles  "II  Figaro" — quotes  scraps  of  Dante — 
A  Yankee  transcript  of  the  dilettante. 


We  have  our  ballad-poets — (Lord  preserve  us  !) 
Song-mongers,  sonneteers,  and  minstrels  "nervous." 
When  "  woodman"  Morris  wished  to  "spare  that  tree," 
Surely  no  seer's  prophetic  eyes  had  he ; 
Else  had  he  known  that  blockheads  without  number 
Would  from  his  luckless  stock  the  country  lumber ; 
Smooth,  unctuous  Morris(^") — bard  and  brigadier — 
(Alas  !  that  Morris  can't  be  Moore  is  clear;) 
A  household  poet,  whose  domestic  muse 
Is  soft  as  milk,  and  sage  as  Mother  Goose ; 
Whose  lyrics  (sought  for  with  a  kind  of  rabies,) 
Like  "  Sherman's  Drops,"  are  cried  for  by  the  babies. 
Ah  !  luckless  bard !  why  did  his  hydra-l)lood 
Raise  from  our  soil  so  fierce  a  ballad-brood  ? 
Why  are  the  hapless  men  of  music-stores(") 
Dogged  by  a  race  of  Yankee  troubadours  ? 

i6g 


Poetical  Works. 


I'AUNAHSIIH  IN  I'lI.LdKY. 


Why  is  the  yardstick  slighted  lor  the  lyre — 
The  pestle  melted  by  poetic  fire  ? 
Our  watchmen's  sleep  disturbed  by  vocal  woes, 
(rw/tar'd,  c?a^arrh'd,  by  red-haired  Romeos  ? 
Wliy,  but  because  each  whining  snob  has  learned 
How  feet  are  measured  and  how  tunes  are  turned ; 
Cipher  with  tropes  his  master's  ledger  spoils — 
Snip  puts  to  press  his  sonnets  as  he  moils ; 
Crispin  with  thread  poetic  waxeth  strong, 
And  Chip^  w^lio  chiseled  wood,  now  chisels  song ; 
And  all  because — (forgive,  0  dread  Apollo  !) 
Where  Morris  leads,  Tom,  Dick,  and  Hal  must  follow ; 
Aping  his  strain,  with  throats  all  cracked  and  wheezy, 
"If  Morris  sings,"  cry  the^^ — "  sure,  singing's  easy  !" 


'Tis  said  that  to  another  pen  belongs 
The  authorship  of  Morris's  best  songs ; 
But  sure  am  I,  no  charit^^'s  in  this — 
For,  if  Ties  not  the  author,  some  one  is ; 
Matters  it  little  ^vho  incurs  the  name — 
Poor  human  nature  suffers  still  the  same ! 
Some  one  first  led  (to  set  our  rhymesters  crazy) 
This  dance — (or  morris- dance,  or  not,  is  hazy  ;) 
Some  one  cried  "Besom!"  and,  behold!  the  word 
A  thousand  watery  fiends  from  slumber  stirred; 
Till  now,  alas  !  (as  in  the  German  fable,) 
To  stop  the  flood  no  human  power  is  able. 


'y:s  169 


.  -  ,>^®>^^  Duganne. 


We  have  our  Dramatists — but  oh ! — since  "Brutus/'('^)  W 
H      Though  hard  the  wretched  tribe  have  striven  to  suit  us — 
Though  "Spartacus"  shall  split  the  groundlings'  ears; 
Though  "Metamora"  scowl  at  crowded  tiers; 
And  Kentish  Aylmere  win  the  plaudit  long — 
There's  naught  to  brag  of  in  our  tragic  song. 
Though  BoKER  bores  with  well-intentioned  plays, 
And  Mathews  tries  to  please  five  hundred  ways ; 
Though  Sargent,  Willis,  and  the  martial  Eeid, 
(And  Lord  knows  how  many  of  lesser  breed,) 
Have  socked  and  buskined  through  the  five-act  folly, 
Their  jokes  are  wept — and  jeered  their  melancholy. 


I  trust  in  Uncle  Sam — believe  in  dollars — 
Believe  in  mad  dogs  and  phonetic  scholars : 
Believe  in  Sheba — she  of  David's  bath,  whose 
Lord  was  slain — believe  in  Corny  Mathews, (") 
And  more  than  this,  believe  that  he  called  "Puffer," 
Than  those  who  laugh  at  him  is  ten  times  tougher. 
Though  Murdoch,  rash,  but  doubtless  patriotic, 
Damn'd  native  plays  in  preference  to  exotic  : 
Though  "Witchcraft"  saved  not  hapless  Puffer's  name, 
And  "Jacob"  built  no  ladder  for  his  fame; 
Though  adverse  fates  foredoom  his  best  intents. 
And  even  his  hits  are  chalked  as  accidents, — 
Yet  I'll  maintain,  with  all  my  heart  and  will,  ^ 
That  Mathews  means  well  to  his  country  still ; 

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>  I'AKNAHMIIS  FN  1MI.I,()I£Y. 

^   Mayhap  booksellers  are  his  worst  revilers, 

Mayhap  he's  barked  at  by  those  curs,  "compilers;" 
Mayhap  the  hate  of  critic  luicks  he  bears, 
Because  his  egotism  beats  even  theirs ; 
Yet  for  their  hate,  I  hate  thee  not,  Cornelius, — 
(Faith,  for  these  things  I  like  thee — tanto  melius) — 
I  like  thee,  spite  of  all  thy  damned  plays, 
Thy  "  weak  inventions" — (as  King  Richard  says) — 
For  truly  many  a  dog  who'd  bite  thy  heel. 
Has  had  good  cause  its  honest  weight  to  feel ; 
I  like  thee  for  that  thou  hast  richly  flayed, 
With  good  goose-quill,  the  thin-skins  of  "  the  trade 
And  dared  amid  the  yelping  pack  to  stand 
For  "Author's  Eights  !"— so,  "Puffer !"  here's  my  hand ! 

"Wliilome  where  Schuylkill  runs  and  Delaware, 
(And  Franklin's  statue  points  to  State-House  square,) 
A  bard  did  write  and  publish,  (hapless  doom  !) 
And  chose  "Poor  Scholar"  for  his  nomme  de  plume ^ 
He  wrote  a  play — albeit  for  cash  or  barter(^^)  — 
And  christened  it  (prophetic  name  !)  "Love's  Martyr." 
'Twas  played — half-damn'd — and  then,  in  desperation, 
The  author  sealed  its  doom — by  publication  ; 
A  thing  unwise — all  men  of  sense  must  say  so : 
Ive  had  a  dozen  damn'd — and  let  them  stay  so. 


Alas!  "Love's  Martyr !" — long  ago  departed ! 
Ne'er  lived  a  healthy  man  so  "  broken-hearted;" 


Duganne. 

PARNASSUS  IN  PILLORY. 

A  six-foot  "blighted  being,"  long  he  wore 
His  braided  frock-coat  buttoned  down  before. 
"One  morn  they  missed  him"  on  the  Chestnut  pave — 
The  next  his  trusting  barber  'gan  to  rave ; 
The  next — but  let  our  Mexic  annals  tell 
How  fiercely  fought  the  bard,  how  long  and  well ; 
Till  home  returned,  with  modest  voice  he  claimed 
To  be — of  all  the  brave — the  bravest  named : 
Which  being  denied,  for  London  straight  he  started, 
Where  "Punch"  perhaps   may  print  his  "Broken- 
Hearted." 


Who's  next  upon  the  mimic  scene  ?    Ah,  truly, 
'Twere  well,  my  muse,  you  come  to  English  duly. 
Griswold,  whose  voice  in  poetry's  oracular. 
Whose  awful  fiat  stamps  each  bard's  vernacular, — 
Griswold  opines  that  Tom,  ycleped  "  The  Ehymer," 
On  steep  Parnassus  yet  may  be  a  climber ; 
And  proves,  by  one  most  nautical  "Ben  Bolt," 
That  "Donkey  John"  's  of  Pegasus  a  colt.(^«) 
I'll  not  deny — for  they  may  read  who  run — 
That  by  Dunn  English  is  the  English  done  ; 
His  "Bolt"  may  bar  Griswoldian  criticism. 
But  I  must  scan  him  through  a  satire's  prism; 
So  without  gloves,  this  surly  Tom  I'll  handle, 
And  hope,  at  least,  "  the  sport  is  worth  the  candle." 


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Poetical  Works. 


I'AHNASSUH  IN  IMM.OIIY. 


Our  "Rhymer's"  critic-lasli,  in  sooth  tliey  tell  us, 
Cuts  like  a  knout — (i'  lailh  my  muse  grows  jealous;) 
Surnamed  "The  Bitter"  he — his  threatening  growl 
Greeting  young  Orpheus  like  a  Cerberus-howl — 
(Young  Orpheus  fresh  from  college  or  the  counter, 
With  harp  in  hand  to  catch  a  muse  and  mount  her :) 
A  critic  he,  whose  "  cut-and-slash"  is  mighty; 
A  bard,  wliose  flights  it  must  be  owned  are  flighty ; 
A  dramatist,  whose  tragic  muse  has  flitted 
Proud  o'er  the  pit — but  only  to  be  pitied ! 

I  pr'ythee,  Tom,  what  mill  supplies  thy  paper? 
What  gas-house  furnishes  thy  "  midnight  taper  ?" 
Hast  thou  Briareus'  arms,  or,  with  antennae, 
Dost  grasp  a  thousand  pens,  to  turn  a  penny  ! 
I  heard  a  speech  to-day — 'twas  English  wrote  it, 
The  journal's  leader — they  from  English  quote  it ; 
I  bought  a  book — ^Dunn  English  on  the  cover ; 
I  sung  a  song — lo  !  English  as  a  lover ! 
Lawyer,  and  doctor,  farmer,  bard,  and  playwright, 
0,  motley  Tom  !  in  one  thing,  pr'ythee,  stay  right ! 
Waste  not  thyself  pursuing  shadowy  vapors ; 
Cut  not  thy  real  work — but  cut  thy  capers  ! 
Shape  for  thy  Future's  years  some  work  whose  might 
Shall  mock  the  tasks  which  now  thy  powers  invite ; 
Strike  the  brave  hai^  for  man — or  break  its  strings ; 
For  Heaven  hears  only  when  a  full  heart  sings. 


Duganne. 


PARNASSUS  IN  PILLORY. 


Here's  Byron-BoKER,  with  a  "  sweet  mustache 

Be  careful,  pen !  attempt  no  combat  rash  ! 

Else,  with  a  rage  that  shall  o'erwhelm  e'en  yours, 


Yet,  in  good  sooth,  perhaps  for  Boker's  sake, 
'Twere  well  to  rouse  the  lion  with  a  shake ; 
Byron,  when  flogged,  eschewed  his  schoolboy  trash ; 
Who  knows  but  Boker — faith !  I'll  try  the  lash. 


I  lift  the  flagellating  rods  on  high ; 
Like  the  stern  Trappist  strike  I — though  afresh 
At  every  blow,  bleed  my  own  tender  flesh ; 
Chastening  whom  much  we  love,  we  can't  be  mild, 
Lest,  whilst  we  "spare  the  rod,"  we  "spoil  the  child." 
Boker's  a  young  man  still — he  wrote  Calaynos, 
For  a  young  man  'twas  not  a  crime  too  heinous  : 
There's  a  rich  vein  of  bloodshed  running  through  it — 
(The  pit  at  "Sadler's  Wells"  took  kindly  to  it ;) 
Next  he  exhumed — I  mean,  he  took  from  Hume, 
A  headless  tale  of  bride  and  Bluebeard  groom ; 
And  last,  to  show  the  Public  how  he  braved  it, 
Brought  "  The  Betrothal"  out — and  barely  saved  it. 
His  verse  is  well  enough — smooth,  classic,  measured — 
(Addison's  style  is  one  that  should  be  treasured ;) 
True,  there's  no  life  where  art  the  subject  warps. 
But,  as  the  crones  say,  "  'Tis  a  handsome  corpse !" 


Boker  may,  Byron-like,  review  reviewers. 


Now,  'pon  my  sacred  word — 'tis  with  a  sigh 


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Poetical  Works. 


I'AHNASSUH  IN  IMI-I-OltY. 


BoKER  of  bards  ih  not  the  first  or  last : 
lie's  growing — haply,  though  he  grows  too  fast ; 
If  poets  seek  the  nnise's  l)right  empyrean, 
They'll  first  do  well  to  reach  the  heart's  criterion : 
Lay  their  foundation  on  good  rocks — not  water; 
Then  huild  like  Gheops — if  they've  bricks  and  mortar; 
So  BoKER — if  he'll  mind  me  to  the  letter, 
(I  can  advise,  because  I  write  much  better,) 
Will  tear  to  shreds  his  bookish  rules,  and  write, 
As  Corny  Mathews  does — with  all  his  might : 
Then,  if  he  charm  not  all  the  public  noddles. 
We'll  know  it  is  his  own  fault,  not  his  model's. 


Borer's  in  Philadelphia — Mathew  Carey 
Sold  books  in  that  "Emporium  Literary;" 
Big  newspapers  and  Ladies'  Magazines 
Are  published  there  ;  the  markets  furnish  greens 
Much  earlier  than  those  of  northern  cities ; 
There  flourish  puffs  poetic,  and  love  ditties. 
Yet  true  it  is,  and  that  'tis  true  'tis  pity. 
The  pen  is  penury  in  Penn's  great  city ; 
Songs  make  a  man  sans  all  things — nay,  what  worse  is, 
Verse,  in  an  adverse  ratio,  brings  reverses. 
Would  the  poor  author  live  by  books,  perchance  he 
Will  find  that  Glrub-street  is  no  thing  of  fancy ; 
Does  he  serve  Graham?  "  Graham  bread"  he  shares; 
Toils  he  for  Godey  ?  many  a  goad  he  bears ; 


'Jl^   Duganne.  ^r^_ 


PARNASSUS  IN  PILLORY. 


Would  lie  the  editorial  tripod  court  ? 
E'ewspaper  columns  will  no  roof  support. 
Ah  !  luckless  scribbler  !  wouldst  escape  a  hovel, 
Eschew  thy  muse,  and  write  a  "  blood-red  novel ; 
Let  plot  be  absent,  and  let  sense  run  mad — 
Let  grammar  be  most  villainously  bad — 
Let  Satan's  self  dictate  the  moral  in't, — 
It  matters  not — some  publisher  will  print. 
Stoop  from  the  sunlight,  and  essay  the  sty : 
Huckster  thy  genius,  and  the  herd  will  buy. 
Each  peddling  bookster  then  will  call  thee  "I^epos," 
And  chant  thy  name  in — "  Literary  Depots." 


Amid  the  Babel  tongues  of  Philadelphia 

There's  one  young  man  who  always  gains  himself  ear : 

By  dint  of  facial  brass  and  mental  lead, 

(Both  mixed  with  real  gold,  it  must  be  said,) 

He  holds  his  weight  among  the  rhyming  race, 

!N"or  yields  to  many  a  classic  bard  his  place. 

A  sporting  Zincalo,  with  boat  and  beagle ; 

A  rhyming  Zincalo,  with  practice  legal, — 

One  day,  as  "Harry  Harkaway,"  he'll  shoot  you 

As  many  quails  or  reedbirds  as  may  suit  you ; 

The  next,  discourse  upon  the  arts  or  music. 

Until  he  prattles  both  himself  and  you  sick;  [> 

Or  till  he  proves,  in  every  subject  pitched  on, 

That  earth  boasts  one  more  "admirable  Crichton."  rz 


0 


PARNASSUS  IN  1'1I<L()UY. 


"Eiidymiou  !"  may  Km  pipe  still  keep  its  tune  ! 
Eiidyniiou-IIiRST,  who  sleeps  beneath  the  moon ; 


With  "Blackstone"  pillowing  his  majestic  head,(^®) 
That  head  which,  all  unlike  his  works,  is  red ! 


Time  was  when,  dormant  in  the  stripling's  breast, 
Trochee  was  silent — mute  was  anapaest ; 
Time  was,  ere  luckless  Helicon  he  drank, 
"When  all  his  verses,  like  his  briefs,  were  blank ; 
His  thoughts  unnumbered,  noteless  still  his  time, 
And  dull-set  as  his  voice  his  dulcet  rhyme ; 
But  chance,  or  circumstance,  or  whimsic  fate. 
By  curious  accidents  makes  mortals  great; 
And  thus  it  chanced,  or  came  to  pass,  in  sooth. 
That  Sully  painted  "  Shakspeare  in  his  Youth 
"With  "hyacinth  hair"  and  beard  of  amber  hue. 
Expansive  brow,  and  eyes  half-brown,  half-blue. 
Hirst  was  an  amateur  in  painting  then, 
And  Sully's  picture  met  his  critic  ken ; 
The  young  man  murmurs,  starts,  and  rubs  his  eyes : 
Egad !  the  portrait  takes  him  by  surprise ; 
The  brow  he  marks — the  amber  beard  he  sees  : 
"Shakspeare  and  me\^^)  (he  cries)  "are  like  as  peas !" 
In  truth,  "  'twas  passing  strange,"  the  stripling  thought, 
Such  "counterfeit  presentment"  here  was  wrought: 
Endymion's  embryo — Avon's  mighty  bard — 
Which  sat  to  Sully,  faith,  to  tell  was  hard. 


Duganne. 

PARNASSUS  IN  PILLORY. 

Pregnant,  no  doubt,  of  some  tremendous  fame, 
One's  hair  was  red — and  t' other's  much  the  same ; 
That  lofty  brow— that  nose— "By  all  the  Kme  !" 
Cries  Hirst,  "  His  locks  are  hyacinth — so  are  mine ! 
If  thus  kind  E"ature  marks  her  duplicate, 
Egad !  I'll  take  to  poems,  and  be  great : 
I'll  write  till  none  shall  know  which  bard  is  which, 
Shakspeare  may  die — but  there's  a  vacant  niche ; 

And  "    Lo  !  Parnassus  heard  the  dread  resolve : 

Hirst  lives  ! — the  Future  will  his  fame  evolve ! 

This  satirizing' s  tedious — though  I  force  not 
The  reader  to  endure  it — Oh !  of  course  not ! 
I'm  satisfied  they'll  read  it  whom  I  quiz, 
And  those  not  named  will  read  to  see  who  is : 
Be  glad,  then,  friends,  whose  genius  is  not  known — 
Be  glad  my  work's  not  still-born  like  your  own ; 
Since  through  my  potent  pen  you'll  gain,  in  verity, 
Mention  at  least  in  most  remote  posterity. 

Posterity !  the  race  of  fools  and  dummies. 

Who'll  crowd  the  Future  with  the  Present's  mummies ; 

Who'll  read  my  books,  and  hundreds  worse  than  mine, 

And  swear  each  mouldering  author  was  divine  ; 

While  in  their  very  midst — unknown  or  spurned — 

Dwell  mightier  minds  than  all  the  Past  inurned. 

Posterity — I  count  your  praise  and  blame. 

For  all  the  good  they'll  do  me,  much  the  same, 

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I'AllNAHHUS  IN  riM,()HY. 


You'll  give  ten  dollars  for  my  iiutogra|)li ; 


(Wliicli  now  in  Wall  street  will  not  bring  the  half ;)  V 

Yet  even  this  tribute  should  not  make  me  vain — 

Great  Barnum's  signature  may  twenty  gain  ! 

Oh,  golden  goal !  Oh,  prize  to  fire  the  soul — 

Posterity  may  all  the  Smiths  enrol !  (^)  ' 

Now  will  plump  Platitude,  with  pitying  smile, 

Point  me  to  history's  teeming  minster-aisle — 

Show  me  the  tombs  and  effigies  of  men 

Who  wrought  their  memories  with  the  glorious  pen : 

With  magpie  glibness  prate  each  deathless  name, 

And  cry — "  Behold  !  Posterity  and  Fame  !" 

Oh !  bitter  jest,  that  marks  with  marble  lie 

The  lowly  earth  where  genius  sank  to  die ; 

Oh  !  mocking  sympathy,  which  shrines  the  dead, 

Yet  spurns  the  living  with  unheeding  tread. 

Great  Heaven !  could  Intellect  its  wrongs  disclose, 
Vain,  vain  the  gauge  that  measures  mortal  woes  ! 
All  sighs,  all  tears,  were  powerless  to  declare 
The  almighty  griefs  which  one  poor  soul  may  bear. 
Behold  !  the  Athenian  sage  his  hemlock  drains. 
And,  mark !  the  Eoman  opes  his  withered  veins ; 
Lo !  from  the  Pisan's  breast  how  torture  chokes 
The  lie,  which  straight  his  stouter  soul  revokes ! 
Look,  where  Geneva  mocks  a  martyr's  cries,  f  ^)  , 
Or  Smithfield's  flames  in  lurid  horror  rise !  M 


79 


Duganne. 

PARNASSUS  IN  PILLORY. 

Behold ! — yet  vainly,  by  the  gleaming  axe, 
By  galling  chains,  by  dungeons,  fagots,  racks, — 
Vainly  ye  strive  to  measure  or  reveal 
A  passing  shade  of  what  the  soul  can  feel. 
'Tis  not  the  drug  that  tortures  Socrates — 
His  faith  o'erthrown,  his  teachings  lost,  he  sees ! 
Weak  are  the  chains  on  Galileo's  frame, 
To  those  which  sink  his  honest  soul  in  shame ! 
Monarchs  may  lose  their  thrones,  yet  life  retain : 
Genius  dethroned  ne'er  lifts  her  brow  again. 


O  Mind  !  immortal  in  thy  suffering ! — Heart ! 
Which  of  all  agony  true  kindred  art ! 
How  would  my  feeble  pen  drop  bloody  tears, 
Could  it  but  chronicle  the  Soul's  sad  years  ! 
Could  it  but  marshal  from  their  nameless  graves, 
The  helot-host  of  intellectual  slaves  ; 
The  unnumbered  martyrs  to  the  Titan's  fate. 
Which  dooms  to  suffering  him  who  would  create. 
Through  the  world's  desert  backward  as  we  turn. 
How  much  of  power — of  impotence — we  learn  ! 
What  glorious  love  is  mingled  with  what  lust — 
What  awful  monuments  we  meet — what  dust ! 
Souls  that  held  heaven  within  their  cherub  clasp, 
Dragged  downwards  by  an  earthly  demon's  grasp ; 
And  seraph  minds,  that  read  the  Eternal's  throne, 
Like  shivered  stars  o'er  brooding  chaos  strown. 


Poetical  Works. 

^    

I'AHNAHSrS  IN  I'lM-OKY. 

But  hold !  I'm  far  too  serious,  and  must  bring 
My  Phcebus-team  deiiiuroly  to  tlie  ring : 
The  ring  where  each  one  treads  the  other's  track, 
And  Truth,  poor  Clown,  is  jeered  by  all  the  pack ; 
Satire,  plain  satire,  is  my  avocation : 
Points  are  my  periods — puns  my  peroration. 


The  British  critics — be  it  to  their  glory — 
When  they  abuse  us,  do  it  con  amove : 
There's  no  half-way  about  your  bull-dog  pure, 
And  there's  no  nonsense  with  your  "Scotch  reviewer." 
Heaven  knows  how  often  we've  been  whipped  like  curs. 
By  those  to  whom  we've  knelt  as  worshippers ; 
Heaven  only  knows  how  oft,  like  froward  chitlings, 
Our  authors  have  been  snubbed  by  British  witlings ; 
Our  mountains  ranked  as  molehills — our  immense 
And  awful  forests  styled    Virginny  fence ;" 
Our  virtues  all  but  damned,  with  faintest  praise, 
And  our  faults  blazoned  to  the  widest  gaze ! 
I  find  no  fault  with  them — they  praise  us  rarely ; 
As  for  abuse — we're  open  to  it  fairly ; 
But  faith,  it  galls  me,  and  I'll  not  deny  it, 
To  mark  our  own  most  deferential  quiet : 
To  note  the  whining,  deprecative  air 
With  which  we  beg  for  praise  or  censure  bear ; 
Shrink  back  in  terror  if  our  gifts  they  spurn, 
And  if  they  smite  one  cheek,  the  other  turn, — 

i8i 


(J) 

(3^ 


Duganne. 

 '2^^3\§\S- 


PABNASSUS  IN  PILLOKY. 


Begging  that  they'll  excuse  a  patient  dunce, 
Who,  if  he  could,  would  offer  both  at  once. 


There's  no  use  in  denying  it — the  Yankee 
(Though,  in  the  way  of  business,  cute  and  cranky ; 
Though  true  as  steel,  and  quick  as  any  rocket,) 
Is  seldom  keenly  touched,  save  through  his  pocket. 
One  war  more  bloody,  even,  than  dishonest, 
We'd  scaped,  had  "  Montezuma's  Halls"  been  non  est; — 
Our  Indian  raids  had  ne'er  brought  shame  or  glory, 
Had  not  old  Plutus  whispered,  "territory." 
And  many  a  wrong,  I'll  wager,  would  be  righted ; 
And  many  a  right  would  have  its  wrongs  requited ; 
And  many  a  truth  from  error's  cloud  would  flash, — 
Could  we  be  sure  such  things  would  "pay,"  in  "cash." 
But,  as  regards  our  books,  and  those  who  make  them, 
For  all  our  country  cares,  the  de'il  may  take  them ; 
Matters  it  little  to  our  sapient  statesmen, 
What  power  annihilates,  or  what  creates  men  ; 
So  that  with  "  congress  prog"  you  duly  ply  'em — 
"  Gin  gratis — and  eight  dollars  each^er  diem." 

'Now,  by  my  troth  ! — if  these  same  legislators 
Were  called,  point  blank,  a  set  of  heartless  traitors ; 
Willing  to  sell  their  country's  fame  for  fat  hire, — 
They'd  doubtless  cry,  "You  lie!"(^)to  this,  my  satire. 
Yet,  if  they  sleep  and  snore,  whilst,  unawares, 
The  enemy  in  our  goodly  field  sows  tares; 

l82 

C^^^Ng/T,^^    v-tTsS' 


Poetical  Works. 

-'^d/^    '^'^S-iMj 

PARNASSUS  IN  IMLI-OKV. 

If  watch  nor  ward  they  keep  upon  our  bordei'H, — 
Pray,  can  they  well  be  called  efficient  warders^  C 


How,  then,  if  broadcast,  o'er  our  land  reprinted. 
Books  of  all  climes  are  strown  with  hand  unstinted; 
Books  such  as  sap  our  freedom's  dearest  life, 
Books  with  the  cant  of  kings  and  Jesuits  rife  ; 
Books  such  as  virtuous  wives  would  blush  to  name, 
Books  that  destroy  a  maiden's  sense  of  shame ! 
now,  then,  if  on  the  plastic  mind  of  youth. 
Falsehood  is  grafted  in  the  place  of  truth ; 
False  taste  infused — false  views  of  right  and  wrong, 
False  love,  false  law,  false  sermons,  and  false  song ! 

Far  be  it  from  me  to  say  that  all  these  ills 
Flow  from  the  poisoned  points  of  foreign  quills; 
Far  be  it  from  me  to  shield,  from  righteous  scorn, 
The  race  of  blackguard  authors  native-born ; 
Wretches,  who,  ghoul-like,  feed  on  carrion  clay. 
And  scent  a  crime  as  vultures  scent  their  prey ; 
Whose  leprous  minds  can  track  a  felon's  course, 
Or  trace  a  harlot's  vices  to  their  source ; — 
Scarce  can  these  men  demand  my  reprobation : 
Thank  heaven  !  their  labors  are  their  own  damnation. 

I  say,  not,  then,  that  foreign  pens  alone 
Inflict  the  moral  wrongs  'neath  which  we  groan ;  f 
But,  tell  me,  ye  who  do  our  thinking  for  us,  ^ 


Duganne. 

g=  ^ 


PARNASSUS  IX  PILLORY. 


(Whom  ballot-boxes  kindly  station  o'er  us  ;) 
Tell  me  if  evils,  such  as  represented, 
Might  not,  by  timely  laws,  have  been  prevented ; — 
Tell  me  if  Paul  de  Kock,  or  Sue,  or  Sand, 
Would  e'er  have  gained  a  foothold  in  our  land, — 
If  ribald  wit,  or  senseless  atheism, 
Could  e'er  have  charmed  us  with  delusive  prism ; 
Had  our  good  Yankee  "publishers  at  sight" 
Been  forced  to  buy  "the  author's  copyright !" 

Why  has  our  yellow- covered  literature 
Poured  o'er  the  land  its  influence  impure  ? 
Why,  but  because  'twas  "cheap" — its  profits  sure! 
Why  was  the  infamous  De  Kock  translated. 
And  cast  abroad  with  rankest  poison  freighted  ? 
Why,  but  because  our  booksters  "  speculated  !" 
On  what  ?     On  manners,  morals,  virtue,  sense  ! 
Souls  might  be  lost  —  but  booksters  turned  their 
pence ! 

Oh,  Justice  !  why  are  still  thine  altars  rotten  ? — 
Could  Intellect  protected  be,  like  cotton, — 
Could  Mind  beget  per  cent,  like  capital, — 
Then  might  we  be  what  else  we  never  shall ; 
Then  would  our  heaven-appointed  "men  of  letters" 
Be  freed  from  iron  Want's  degrading  fetters  ; 
Then  might  the  thoughts  of  noble  souls  illume 
The  poor  man's  hut,  the  rich  man's  drawing-room ; 

184 


Poetical  Works. 


I'AUNASSUH  IN  I'IM.OKY. 


Wliile,  from  the  light  its  filth  could  ne'er  endure, 
Would  shrink  our  "yellow-covered  literature  !" 
But,  ah!  while  Buhver,  Dickens,  James,  or  Jerrold, 
Costs  scarcely  more  than  Bennett's  "double  Herald;" 
How  can  we  hope  our  country's  mind  to  nourish. 
Or  look  for  Yankee  literature  to  flourish? 


Oh,  "Yankee  literature!"  Oh,  tripe!  Oh,  treacle! 
What  can  I  say  our  publishers  to  tickle  ? 
How  shall  I  make  my  humblest,  prettiest  bow, 
To  deprecate  their  rage,  and  'scape  a  row  ? 
O,  Harper!  mayor!  temperance-man!  church-member! 
Our  household-prop!  our  hearth-stone's  brightest  ember ! 
What  could  we  do  without  thy  mammoth  presses  ? — 
Thy  Grub — no !  Cliff-street's  hasty-pudding  messes ! 

'Tis  not  Ms  fault — (I  clear  friend  Harper  of  it,) 

That  foreign  books  are  cheap,  and  pay  a  profit; 

He  did  not  hire  Dumas,  or  Paul  de  Kock, 

To  jest  at  truth — at  decency  to  mock ; 

A  publisher  who'd  mend  his  country's  morals. 

With  his  owm  bread  and  butter  madly  quarrels. 

He's  not  to  know  what  books  work  ill  or  well — 

The  question  he  must  ask,  is — "  will  they  sell  ?" 

And  if  to-day  he  prints  a  moral  libel. 

To-morrow  squares  the  account — he  prints  a  bible ! 


85 


Duganne.   ..o^s^--^^ 


PARNASSUS  IN  PILLORY.  ''t^ 

(;ja™     And  here,  O  Virtue  !  which  art  daily  shamed — 

w   .  w 


0  Honesty !  which  scarcely  now  art  named, 
0  Truth  !  which  art  the  veil  of  direst  wrong, — 
Give  me  to  plead  your  cause  in  this  my  song ! 
Shall  Foster  prostitute  a  graceful  pen, 
To  "slice  up"  outcast  hags,  and  outlawed  men ? 
Shall  "Buntline"  rave,  and  Wilkes  his  "pigeons"  lure, 
And  Ann-street's  presses  swell  the  common-sewer  ? 
Shall  ribald  sheets  their  pandering  pimps  engage, 
While  Mose  and  Jakey  prop  a  crumbling  stage ; 
Shall  "these  things  be,"  and  yet  nor  voice  nor  pen, 
Scourge  as  with  snakes  the  morals  and  the  men  ? 
InTo  !  though  I  loathe  the  quarry — let  me  speed 
One  shaft,  at  least,  against  the  scorpion  breed ! 

Upas  !  thy  deadly  venom  hath  but  the  art 
To  chill  the  warmth  of  some  poor  human  heart ! 
Plague  !  thou  canst  blister  flesh  and  torture  limb, 
'Till  the  pulse  slackens  and  the  eye  grows  dim ; 
Simoom !  thy  blast,  swift-scouring  o'er  the  plain, 
May  fire  the  blood  and  scorch  the  withering  brain ! 
But  ye  are  bounded  in  your  fearful  power — 
Your  field  the  limits  of  life's  little  hour ; 
Trembles  your  empire  on  each  fleeting  breath  : 
Your  pangs,  your  perils,  have  their  term  in  death! 


V. 


I^ot  so  the  Upas  of  a  venal  Press  ! 
The  Plague — the  Simoom — of  licentiousness ; 


TARNAHSUS  IN  IM I.I-OIIY. 

Weak  is  the  death  to  inortill  sense  confined — 
That  only  kills  wliicli  kills  the  immortal  mind! 
Poison  and  Post  can  but  the  clay  control — 
An  impure  Press  hath  power  to  slay  the  soul ! 

0  matron !  kneeling  by  thy  slumbering  child, 
Dare  not  to  hope  his  mind  is  undefiled  ! 
List !  in  his  restless  dreams  his  thoughts  betray 
What  books  he  reads,  by  stealth,  from  day  to  day ; 
Ilush  !  is  it  "  Crusoe"  from  his  lips  that  falls  ? 
No!  "Ellen  Jewett"(^*)  his  sleeping  sense  recalls. 
O,  maiden!  speak!  why  now  that  volume  crush 
Beneath  thy  pillow  ? — why  that  conscious  blush  ? 
Fearest  thou  the  book  may  shame  a  mother's  eye  ? 
God  help  thee,  maiden  !  there  is  danger  nigh ! 

And  ye  who  pander — ye,  whose  reeking  souls 

No  love  refines — no  law  nor  shame  controls ; 

Ye  on  whose  tongues  the  words  of  virtue  dwell. 

While  in  your  hearts  distil  the  dews  of  hell ! 

Ye  moral  scavengers — who  drag  each  sink 

For  food — whose  hearts  are  blacker  than  your  ink  ; — 

Tremble  !  the  crimes  which  ye  to  strength  have  nursed, 

Shall,  through  your  children,  make  you  doubly  cursed ! 

Avaunt  the  theme  !    0  Pegasus  the  skittish ! 
Return  we  to  our  critic  friends — the  British  ; 
The  British,  whom  our  universal  nation 
Whips  each  July-the-Fourth,  in  loud  oration : 


Duganne. 


PARNASSUS  IN  PILLORY. 


The  British,  whose  worm-eaten  statutes  rule  us, 
Whose  precedents  decide — whose  models  school  us ; 
Whose  nod  we  bow  to — whose  award  we  tight  for ; 
Whose  stamp  our  actors  seek — our  authors  write  for. 
True,  we  have  beaten  Bull  in  man}^  a  battle — 
But  then  Bull  beats  us  in  his  Durham  cattle ; 
True,  we  have  plucked  from  him  old  Neptune's  trident, 
But  then  his  "Punch"  can  give  our  ribs  a  sly  dint; 
So,  though  we  could  with  greatest  ease  outstrip  her, 
His  lugger  makes  a  tender  of  our  clipper  ! 

I'm  far  from  wishing,  fellow-bards  !  to  plague  you. 
But,  faith !  'tis  fun  to  note  your  Anglo-ague  ; 
To  see  you  march,  manoeuvre,  crawl,  or  leap, — 
Dance  or  lie  down,  sing,  curse,  pray,  laugh,  or  weep  ; 
Just  as  the  wires,  which  rule  your  changes  antic. 
Are  pulled  by  merry-andrews  transatlantic. 
I  must  not  laugh — no !  I'll  espouse  your  quarrel ! 
(Heaven  knows  ye  can't  afford  to  lose  one  laurel !) 
They  say,  (a  wicked  libel  this  of  course  is,) 
They  say  ye  steal,  0  bards  !  from  British  sources. 

'Tis  monstrous  !  what !  shall  British  critics  prate 
Of  plagiaries — and  say  we  imitate  ? 
Who  dares  assert  that  Keats  was  read  by  Hirst, 
Or  "Tibia"  by  his  Mother  well  was  nursed ? 
Who  so  fool-hardy  as  to  hint  that  Moore 
Wrote  HorFMAN's(^^)  melodies  ten  years  before  ? 


igg 


Poetical  Works. 


PAUNASSUH  IN  IMM.OIIY. 


Who  says  that  Sargent(''^®)  strips  Coriieille's  poor  "Cid?" 
That  Benjamin(2^)     Caiiioens  once  was  hid  ? 
That  Emerson,('^*^)  like  Coleridge,  reads  the  Germans, 
And  Dawes's(^'-')  poems  sound  like  Taylor's  sermons  ? 
Who  says  Lunt's(^)  lead  with  Byron's  gold  was  sol- 
dered ? — 

That  Wordsworth  dribhles  through  meandering  Stod- 
dard ?(-^^) 

Or  who  affirms  that  Harvard  grants  its  benison(^) 
To  those  alone  who  canonize  Saint  Tennyson  ? 


I've  mentioned  Read  : — his  song  is  very  sweet — 
Poetic  milk  for  those  who  baulk  at  meat. 
I've  heard  his  puns  full  oft  use  common  sense  ill, 
And  had  my  likeness  taken  by  his  pencil ; 
Soft  "T.B.  R."— the  "Tibia'  of  our  wits— (^) 
Whose  delicate  muse  on  fairy  footsteps  flits ; 
The  "Doric"  Read,  who  in  his  paint-shop  woos, 
With  dainty  food,  his  sentimental  muse ; 
Tempts  her  with  titbits  from  a  thousand  "  marts,  "(^^) 
The  tongues  of  nightingales  and  cuckoos'  hearts ; 
Trembles,  and  faints,  and  dies,  in  every  line. 
And  draws  the  web  of  fancy — superfine ; 
Paints  a  new  blush  upon  the  damask  rose. 
And  o'er  its  leaves  some  rare  patchouly  throws ; 
Tears  off  the  G  string  from  his  pretty  harp. 
And  strikes  the  flat  notes  rather  than  the  sharp : 

189 


Duganne. 


PARNASSUS  IN  PILLORY. 


Fearful  of  falls,  his  wings  he  would  control, 
And  doffs  the  Spartan  for  the  Sybarite  soul.(^) 

God  made  the  Poet  for  his  instrument : 
His  harp,  his  heart,  are  never  given — but  lent ; 
And  all  that  heaven  requires,  for  rental-fee, 
Is  to  give  harp  and  heart  their  natural  key. 
Tibia  !  thy  song  is  like  thy  body — little : 
Thy  fame,  I  fear  me,  like  thy  genius — brittle : 
Wouldst  thou  be  honored  ?  drop  thy  quibbling  quill, 
Eschew  thy  love,  dove,  dart,  and  daffodil ; 
Fling  'mid  the  stars  thy  songs,  if  bard  thou  art, 
Or  sink  them  in  the  wondrous  human  heart : 
Then  mayst  thou  soar  among  the  immortal  few — 
In  spite  of  satires — or  the  "Whig  Eeview."(^^) 

Speaking  of  stars,  attend,  0  muse  most  pliant ! 
To  our  acknowledged  loadstar — Mister  Bryant  ! 
Whose  light  I've  viewed  with  reverential  deference, 
As  far  as  earliest  school-boy  dates  have  reference  ; 
Whose  flights  I've  marked  as  most  etherial  things, 
Sure  that  he  used  no  Cretan's  waxen  wings  ; 
Whose  shrine  I've  knelt  at,  in  true  orthodoxy, 
Certain  the  bard  was  Dan  Apollo's  proxy. 
My  fingers  tremble,  and  my  pulse  grows  faint ; 
Awful  the  task  a  noonday  sun  to  paint ! 
Fain  would  I  praise  this  laureate  of  our  nation. 
Were  not  all  praise  but  supererogation  ; 


190 


Poetical  Works. 

 -=e- 


PAKNAHSlia  IN  I'lM-OKY. 


lie  is  so  fixed  a  fact — so  constellated, 
Like  bankrupts*  debts,  be  can't  be  overrated  : 
His  name's  a  sad  sponsorial  misnomer — 
Had  nature  spoken,  be'd  been  cbristencd — Homer. 

Wbat  time  our  presidential  politics 
Count  game  mucli  less  by  bonors  than  by  tricks ; 
When  Rynders  wields,  like  Hercules,  bis  "club,"(^) 
And  social  Greeley  peeps  from  cynic  tub, — 
Then  Bryant — poet-laureate — nature's  boast — 
Treads  the  old  party-lines,  from  Post  to  Post ;  {^) 
New-nibs  his  pen  to  brand  new  truth  as  schism, 
And  damns  all  isms,  but  safe  conservatism. 

iN'ow,  by  my  modesty !  I  like  friend  Bryant  : 
But  as  a  man  I  like  him — not  a  giant ! 
I  like  his  landscapes — mountains,  woods,  and  copses, 
And  freely  own,  he's  "death  on"  Thanatopsis; 
But,  with  due  deference,  I  can  see  no  justice 
In  making  him  a  classical  Procrustes  ;(^^)  . 
And  lopping  hapless  bards  of  heel  and  head, 
To  fit  them  for  his  gas-inflated  bed. 
I  thank  him  kindly  for  his  blankest  verse ; 
(I've  seen  much  better — but  I've  seen  still  worse ;) 
I  bless  him  for  his  homoeopathic  stanzas — 
His  apophthegma,  clear  as  Sancho  Panza's ; 
I'll  own,  in  fact,  he's  Brobdignagian — ^but, 

Just  so  was  Gulliver — in  Lilliput ! 

191 

^   


  Duganne.   ^^^j^-^' 


PARNASSUS  IN  PILLORY. 


Yet  will  I  grant  that  he  a  new  Antseus  is — (^°) 
But,  "gracious!  Max!" — no  apotheosis  ! 

In  the  old  time — the  time  that  never  tarries — 
We  owned  a  bard  who  sang  of  Mark  Bozzaris : 
Bozzaris  is  no  more — and  dead  is  Astor — 
I  wish  the  last  had  ne'er  been  Halleck's  master. 
Trade,  like  Medusa,  turns  the  heart  to  stone. 
And  jarring  sounds  destroy  the  harp's  sweet  tone. 
Figures  our  bard  still  hath,  but  tropes  I  doubt, 
Invoices  plenty,  but  no  voice  comes  out. 
Bozzaris  died  by  steel,  but  gold  could  slay 
The  man  through  whom  Bozzaris  lives  for  aye ; 
Astor  was  mightier  than  the  dreaming  "Turk" — 
Requiescat  in  pace — Astor' s  clerk ! 

Where  is  Park  Benjamin  ?  In  sooth,  'tis  wondrous ! 
He  sings  not — ^yet  the  stones  are  silent  under  us  ! 
Where  is  that  bard  whose  madrigals,  in  Gotham, 
Took  root  so  deep  that  still  the  newsboys  know  them  ? 
Where  are  his  sonnets,  and  his  songs  rhapsodical, 
That  whilome  graced  each  infant  periodical  ? 
Once  (when  a  hero  none  presumed  to  doubt  him) 
He  failed  with  journals — now  they,  fail  without  him ; 
Once  (as  a  sort  of  editorial  Warwick) 
He  built  up  paper  thrones — "  alas !  poor  Yorick !" 
Where  is  he  now  ?    I'll  give — my  word  upon  it — 
This  book  (when  finished)  for  his  "last,  best  sonnet." 

192 




Poetical  Works. 


PAUNASHUa  IN  IMI,I,()UY. 

Room  for  our  "Lakers  !" — 0  !  sweet  Windermere ! 
Surely  the  winds  do  waft  thine  essence  here. 
List  the  Home  Journal — Fashion's  weekly  creditor! 
We  must  make  room  for  Stoddard  !  cries  its  editor. 
Stoddard  !  we  will :  if  ISTat  he  thine  example, 
Thou'lt  need,  in  truth,  an  area  most  ample : 
Room  where  the  hanyan-growtli  of  self-conceit 
May  twine  its  downward  hranches  round  thy  feet : 
Room  where  the  ghosts  of  time  and  talent  slain, 
Like  afreets  damn'd,(^)  shall  haunt  thy  desert  brain. 
If  E'at's  high  patronage  thy  muse  would  tiy. 
Room  thou  wilt  have — like  Uncle  Toby's  fly  ;• 
But  if  (in  bold  reliance  on  thyself) 
Thou  layest  thy  maudlin  seniors  on  the  shelf. 
If,  with  the  Orphean  lute  thou  fingerest  well, 
Thou'lt  dare  the  flames  of  even  a  critic's  hell, — (^^) 
Reckless  of  Duyckinck(^^) — braving  Griswold's  doom — 
Then  may  the  world  award  thy  genius  "room  !" 

What  time  some  British  critic  lost  his  dinner, 

Charles  Fenno  Hoffman  was  reviewed,  (poor  sinner !) 

To  whom  he  may  this  peril  of  his  neck  owe 

I  know  not — only  that  they  called  him  "  Echo;"(^^) 

And  he  (to  prove  such  cruel  critics  w^rong) 

Published  anew  a  budget  of  his  song. 

Ah,  luckless  man  !    Had  he  but  burnt — not  printed. 

He  might  those  wags  have  nicely  circumvented. 


Duganne. 


PARNASSUS  IN  PILLORY. 


Alas,  poor  Hoffman  !    Griswold  thinks  his  lyrics 
Equal  to  Waller's  "richest"  songs,  or  Herrick's  !(^) 
If  this  be  true,  0  Rufe  !  which  thou  assurest, 
I  hope  I'll  see  of  neither  bard  his  poorest. 
Ah,  Doctor  Griswold  !  I've  a  shrewd  suspicion, 
That  Hoffman  owes  to  Mendship  his  position : 
That  some  past  service  may  have  earned  for  wages 
Your  bed-procrustean  of  some  fourteen  pages ; 
In  short,  that  some  old  friendly  claim  may  owe  its 
Cancelment  to  the  influence  of  your  "Poets ;" 
And  so  our  Hoffman,  thro'  his  friendly  "Doctor," 
Stands  among  freshman  bards  a  sort  of  "proctor."(^^ 

"Sparkling  and  bright"  is  Hoffman's  soul,  they  say, 
Where  kindly  fancies  rule  with  gentle  sway ; 
But  that  he  be,  as  Griswold's  book  declares, 
A  bard  with  whom  no  Yankee  bard  compares : 
That,  in  his  puling  love-songs,  he  can  thrill 
One  heart  where  English  sways  a  score  at  will ; 
That  all  the  sparkling  fire-flies  of  his  lyre 
Can  glow  like  Taylor's  "Bison-track"  of  fire; 
That  even  with  Morris  (could  I  say  much  worse  ?) 
His  muse  can  measure,  in  domestic  verse, — 
If  in  denying  these  things  I'm  outvoted, 
I  leave  the  matter  to — the  authors  quoted. 

"Ah !  who  can  tell  how  hard  it  is  to  climb" 
The  "Giant's  Causeway"  of  Gothamic  rhyme? 


Poetical  Works. 


PAKNASHUH  IN  IMM.OHY. 


Once  Percival,^*^)  in  chissic  imniberH,  swept 
The  liiirp  which  since  so  sluggishly  has  slept: 
His  "Genius  waking"  first  our  bosoms  stirred, 
To  mock  each  after  year  with  "  hope  deferred 
And  now,  "forgetful  of  his  once  bright  fame," 
lie  grasps,  content,  the  shadow  of  a  name ! 
Wlio  shall  his  mute  and  stringless  harp  attune  ? 
Not  even  thrice-classic  Fosdick — or  Bethune  !('*^) 

Wlien  Parson  Pierpont,  in  Bostonian  pulpit, 
Fought  like  a  matador  in  Spanish  bull-pit ; 
And  heedless  all  of  fire-bolts  round  his  steeple,(^^) 
Bolted  cold  water  at  his  graceless  people, — 
Then,  rivalling  Pierpont,  broken  hearts  to  solace. 
The  charms  of  "Adam's  Ale"  were  sung  by  Wallace  :( 
Sung  with  most  fearful  lungs  and  nerves  unshaken. 
Till  Priessnitz  soon  for  Orpheus  was  mistaken ; 
Till  cisterns  seemed  the  Muses'  penetralia. 
And  aqueducts  the  only  true  Castalia. 

O  Wallace  !  "man  of  'Ross !'  "  not  now,  as  then, 
Thy  tyro-fingers  grasp  a  feeble  pen  : 
ISTot  now,  with  lisping  love-lays  on  thy  tongue, 
iTeedst  thou  repeat  what  haply  scores  have  sung ; 
^^"or  studied  phrase  nor  measured  strain  should  bind 
The  upward  soaring  of  thy  natural  mind  ; 
Ko  senseless  arrogance  nor  weak  distrust 
Should  cramp  thy  powers  with  egoistic  rust. 


QsUu.   Duganne.   ^^^j^l}^)/ 


PARNASSUS  m  PILLORY. 


Wouldst  grasp  success  ?  tlien  deem  it  shame  to  doubt ! 
Genius  hast  thou  ? — like  murder,  it  "will  out." 
If  heavenly  Phoebus  yields  to  thee  his  team, 
Or  if  thy  muse,  like  Cutter's,  goes  by  "steam 
If,  fierce  as  ITears,(^^)  thy  red-hot  language  glows, 
Or  softly  drips,  like  milk-and-water  Coe's  ;(^^) 
If  Griswold  shrine  thee,  or  if  Graham  scorn, (^) 
Be  sure  that  Jove  o'ersees  the  poet-born  ! 
Assert  thy  claims,  though  all  the  critics  carp. 
Take  "heart  of  grace,"  and  strike  the  sounding  harp: 
If  the  world  laughs,  why  let  the  world  go  hang, — 
It  laughed  and  sneered,  when  glorious  Dante  sang! 

I  almost  passed  by  Willis — "  ah,  miboy  ! 
"Foine  morning !  da-da !"    Faith !  I  wish  him  joy ! 
He's  half  a  century  old — in  good  condition  ; 
And,  positively,  he  has  gained — "position." 
'Gad!  what  a  polish  " upper-ten-dom"  gives 
This  executioner  of  adjectives  ; 

This  man  who  chokes  the  English,  worse  than  Thug- 
gists,  (^^) 

And  turns  "the  trade"  to  trunk-makers  or  druggists  ; 
Labors  on  tragic  plays,  that  draw  no  tiers — 
Writes  under  bridges,  and  tells  tales  of  peers  ;("'^^) 
His  subjects  whey — his  language  sugar'd  curds  : 
Gods  !  what  a  dose  I — had  he  to  "eat  his  words." 
His  "  Sacred  Poems,"  (like  a  rogue's  confessions,) 
Gain  him  indulgence  for  his  worst  transgressions  : 

1 96 


  "'''^J^^ 


Poetical  Works. 


•AUNASSUH  IN  I'lM-OUY. 


Ilis  "fugitive"  attempts  will  doubtless  live — 
Oh!  that  more  works  of  his  were — fugitive! 
Fate  to  his  fame  a  ticklish  place  has  given, 
Like  Mah'met's  coffin, (•'''^)  'twixt  the  earth  and  lieaven 
But  be  it  as  it  will — let  come  what  may — 
Nat  is  a  star :  his  works — the  milky  way  ! 


"Why  so  severe  on  Willis?"  Julia  cries, 
(Who  reads  De  Trohriand  in  an  English  guise ;)  i^'^) 
Wliy  so  severe  ?    Because  my  muse  must  make 
Example  stern,  for  injured  Poesy's  sake. 
!N'ot  that  Kat  Willis  curls  his  yellow  hair — 
Not  that  his  sense  can  breathe  but  perfumed  air — 
Not  that  he  plays  the  ape  or  ass,  I  mourn, — 
For  ape  and  ass  are  worth  not  e'en  my  scorn ; — 
But  that,  with  mind,  and  soul,  and  (haply)  heart, 
He  yet  hath  stooped  to  act  the  fopling's  part ; 
Trifled  vnXh  all  he  might  have  been,  to  choose 
The  post  of — cicisheo  to  the  muse  ! 
Flung  off  the  chaplet  which  his  boyhood  won. 
To  wear  the  fool's  cap  of  a  "  man  of  ton  !" 
Not  Willis  only  lash  I  for  the  crime — 
Through  him  I  strike  the  bastard  tribe  of  rhyme ; 
The  race  o'er  whom,  in  his  ow^n  native  power, 
Jove-like  'mid  satyrs,  might  this  Willis  tower ! 
0,  Art  !  whose  angel  presence  we  have  felt; 
Whose  genial  smiles  our  raptured  senses  melt : 


PARNASSUS  IN  PILLORY.  (^A^ 

Ah !  when  thy  glorious  heart  is  big  with  love, 
M      Why  do  thy  chosen  children  recreant  prove  ? — 

A  .      .  .  . 

Fly  from  the  arms  which  might  sustain  their  souls, 
And  plunge  from  heaven,  to  grub  the  earth  like  moles  ? 
0  awful  I^ATURE  !  thou,  whose  generous  blood, 
Like  the  strange  pelican's,  revives  her  brood ! 
Whose  life  through  death  still  fructifies  again, 
Moulding  from  dragons'  teeth  its  armed  men  !(^") 
How  is  thy  truth  profaned  and  brought  to  shame. 
When  gewgaw  fashion  props  an  author's  fame ; 
When  mincing  phrase  usurps  the  place  of  wit, 
And  reason  yields  to  prancing  rhyme  the  bit ! 


Pause,  honest  pen  !  thy  fervor  makes  thee  stray : 
Pause — ere  injustice  desecrate  thy  lay ; 
Though  all  Pandora's  ills  be  Poesy's  lot, 
Hope  lingers  still — upheld  by  Freeman  Scott  !(^^) 
0  patriot  Scott  !  thy  eagle  flights  I  sing. 
That  top  Parnassus,  with  untiring  wing. 
1^0  more  shall  Hopkinson  Columbia  hail — 
Freneau  and  Paine  henceforth  are  voted  stale ; 
Even  Emmons  ''pales  his  ineffectual  fires," 
For  Freeman  Scott  hath  struck  the  sounding  wires. 
The  "Union  saved"  his  monument  shall  be — 
And  all  posterity  exist — "  Scott  free  !" 


Nature's  a  jealous  mistress,  and  who  wooes 
Her  smiles,  must  grant  her  passion  all  its  dues ; 

198 




V 

1 


,  ^  ^  Poetical  Works.  .^fv, 

^  i>4iih.riuuiroiikTi>ilii\trv 


I'AHNAHHl'S  IN  ril.LOUY. 


She  hates  coquettish  airs,  but  yields  lier  zone  Q 
if   Freely  to  him  who  clasps  it  to  liis  own.  ( 

TV  J 

Though  Pike(*''^)  sliall  bawl  for  her  (unequal  odds  !) 
His  most  ungodly  "Hymns  to  all  the  Gods 
Though  LuNT,  like  Jove  with  Daniie  of  old, 
Woo  her  with  showerings  from  his  "Age  of  Gold 
Though  SiMMS,('^)  with  Ponce  de  Leon's  madness  rife, 
Swear  that  in  "Florida"  lies  endless  life; 
Though  light-horse  Street, {^^)  with  Indian  lasso  slack, 
Should  seek  to  bind  her  pillion ed  at  his  back ; 
Though  HosMER,(^)  ambushed  in  some  tangled  glen, 
Like  awkward  Pan,  would  pipe  her  to  his  den  ; 
She  flies — or,  laughing  at  the  daring  elf. 
Bids  Echo  answer — while  she  hides  herself ! 


Yet,  haply,  Mature  gives  not  all  the  slip : 

HoYT  pilfers  kisses  from  her  glowing  lip — 

HoYT,  who,  with  wooings  so  demure  and  meek, 

Secures  the  fame  he  scarcely  seems  to  seek ; 

With  quiet  curb  constrains  his  champing  thought, 

Kor  gives  the  bridle  even  when  he  ought. 

Fearing,  like  Ealeigh,  danger  if  he  climb,  (^^) 

He  spoils  his  native  tune  by  serving  time ! 

'Tis  wi^ong,  friend  Hoyt  !  no  poet  passive  lives  ! 

Blows  he  may  bear — but  blows  he  likewise  gives. 

Thy  "Blacksmith"  forged  true  armor  for  thy  breast  :(^'') 


Rise  now,  and  cast  thy  trenchant  lance  in  rest ! 


Duganne. 


PARNASSUS  IN  PILLORY. 


Of  stalwart  hearts  the  cause  of  man  hath  need ; 
'Twere  shame  to  follow,  Ealph !  if  thou  canst  lead ! 


But,  lo  !  a  bard  of  supra-mundane  light ! 

From  heaven  he  hails,  and  Harris  is  he  hight.(^^) 

Whilome  a  parson,  erst  a  spirit-seer. 

And  now  prime-laureate  of  each  upper  sphere. 

"No  vulgar  rhyming-lexicon  needs  he — 

No  syntax  dull,  no  tedious  prosody ; 

He  shuts  his  eyes — he  opes  his  mouth — and,  lo ! 

Ten  thousand  glittering  words  like  water  flow : 

With  planes  and  spheres,  with  mystic  "threes"  and 


He  chants  an  "Epic  of  the  Starry  Heavens;" — 
Or,  rather — Dryden,  Byron,  Alfieri, 
(From  some  transparent  lunar  luminary,) 
With  Shakspeare,  Dante,  Milton,  Pope,  and  Petrarch, 
(Each  of  some  solar  world  the  poet-tetrarch,) 
Descend — and  (as  the  victims  of  Phalaris(^^) 
Roared  thro'  a  brazen  bull)  so  sing  thro'  Harris  ; 
Until  the  shining  lines  of  Heaven's  topography^^) 
(Including  manners,  customs,  and  geography) 
Are  made  so  plain  that  we  would  not  a  cubit  err 
In  mapping  all,  froni  Mercury  to  J upiter. 


sevens," 


Poetical  Works. 



I'AltNASSt  H  IN  I'lIJ.OKY. 

Not  thine  the  hand  to  sweep  immortal  lyres — 
Not  thine  the  song  for  Love's  eternal  choirs : 
The  Spirit-'s  heaven  is  higher  than  thy  dream — 
The  Heart's  deep  plummet  sounds  a  deeper  theme. 
Thy  bungling  worship  pleases  not  the  Muse, 
For  hyperborean  homage  she  eschews. 
Of  human  kin,  she  likes  not  beings  stellar — 
In  sooth  she'd  rather  kiss  plain  Tam  MacKellar.(''') 

Ho  !  Lyon  !  cynosure  of  fortune's  cornea, 

And  Poet-Laureate  of — California ! 

Bard  of  "Eureka"  and  of  "  Lyonsdale"("2)— 

Most  "learned  Theban  !"  I  do  bid  thee  hail ! 

0  Caleb  !  thou,  the  brightness  of  whose  star. 

Even  Bayard  Taylor's  radiance  could  not  mar ; 

Whose  genius,  burning  for  a  deathless  fame. 

Linked  the  Pacific  with  thine  own  great  name,(^^) 

What  boots  it,  Caleb  !  if  thy  rivals  sore 

Malign  thy  "bear,"  by  calling  it  a  bore  ?(^'*) 

What  recks  thy  muse  if  jealous  witlings  say 

She's  mongrel-bred — in  Persia  and  Cathay  !(''^) 

They  laugh  who  win,  and  thou  canst  sing  as  well. 

And,  faith  !  I  think  thy  prancing  rhymes  will  sell 

For  just  as  much  (and  bring  thee  thrice  the  pity) 

As  if  they'd  passed,  like  Taylor's,  through  banditti. (^^) 

Speaking  of  China,  or  Cathay  the  old, 

(Where  each  man  duplicates  his  neighbor's  mould,) 

201 


(3^ 


Duganne. 

@  'g^^vsi-  .   -^aya^Q- 

PARNASSUS  IN  PILLOEY.  ^^|^ 

Brings  to  my  mind  (a  natural  transition !)  ^ 

That  town  of  most  Confucian  erudition,  l 

That  gives  "One  Hundred  Orators"  their  glory, 

And  owns  that  polymathic  wonder,  Story !('''') 

China 's  the  world — her  sons  are  all  celestial :  j 

Outside  barbarians  are  no  more  than  bestial ;  ' 

So  Boston,  like  the  ancient  land  of  hyson, 

Counts  all  barbarian  beyond  her  horizon  ! 

Her  Whipples  out-Macaulay  Mac  himself— 

Her  Emersons  assign  Carlyle  the  shelf ; 

Her  EvERETTS,  her  Brownsons,  and  her  Channings, 

Are  worth  a  score  of  Foxes,  Pitts,  and  Cannings ; 

In  short,  her  Lowells,  Longfellows,  and  Tappans, 

Are  good  celestials  as  Chinese  or  Japans. 


No  lead  can  fathom  Boston's  mental  deep  ; 
Ko  alien  thought  can  scale  her  learning's  steep ; 
1^0  fancy  strains  to  that  she  does  not  reach. 
And  none  may  learn  save  haply  she  shall  teach ; 
Of  Fame's  broad  temple  Boston  keeps  the  portal, 
And  Boston  bards  alone  are  dubbed  immortal  : 
Even  though  her  dingy  bookstores,  it  is  said. 
Are  one  great  sepulchre  of  "sheeted  dead." 
Behold  !  "Mat.  Lee,"  the  pirate,  killed  a  horse : 
The  horse  came  back  again — a  "  spirit-corse 
And  so  docs  Dana,(^^)  who,  for  many  a  year, 
On  Wiley's  book-shelves  found  a  quiet  bier. 


^r^S^e/^    ^'iSxS'^/Q- 


Poetical  Works. 

'^G-^-~    '-^-^5©- 


I'AUN.VSSn.S  IN  ril-I,()KY. 


If  thus  ill  Boston  muniiniod  books  arc  prized, 
Great  Jove  !  even  Sprague(^")  may  yet  be  galvanized; 
Who  knows  what  prodigies  may  yet  be  noted, 
Wliere  Peter  Parley  siiigs,(^)  and  Fields  is  quoted  ;(*^^) 
Fields,  with  his  whistle  piping  forth  the  throngs 
Of  bards  who  wait  his  judgment  on  their  songs, 
As  hungry  travellers  wait  for  dinner-gongs. 

When  hawks  to  melody  attune  their  throats, 
Tremble  we  may  for  Philomela's  notes; 
So,  when  "the  trade"  essay  the  Poet's  powers, 
Well  may  we  fear  for  this  poor  trade  of  ours. 
The  hapless  muse  her  hard-won  myrtle  yields, 
When  bookmen  brave  her  in  their  barren  fields ; 
When  Grub-street  practises  the  gentle  art, 
And  Ticknor  claims  Apollo's  counter-^art 
Ah,  Jimmy  Fields  !  thy  verse  I'll  not  berate,— 
Bostonia's  Helicon  is — Cochituate  !(^^) 
Why  should  we  mourn,  in  these  teetotal  times, 
That  water-level  is  the  gauge  of  rhymes  ? 
Rich  are  thy  covers — ink  and  paper  good : 
So  we'll  forgive  the  inside  platitude ; 
Thy  verses  sell — else  had  they  not  been  printed, 
Thy  brass  transmutes  to  gold  as  good  as  minted. 
Bookmen  in  sooth  should  make  the  best  of  bards, 
(As  faro-bankers  hold  the  winning  cards;) 
Write,  Jimmy  !  write — for  then  (I  smile  to  say  it) 
The  bard  will  get  per  cent. — the  bookster  pay  it.  c§ 

Qg^e^   — .  


Duganne. 

  ^ 


PARNASSUS  IN  PILLORY. 


0  Doctor  Holmes  !(^^)  O  funny  Doctor  Holmes  ! 
Out  of  thy  mouth  Cochituate  fairly  foams  ! 
Most  glittering  froth — until  the  gas  is  freed — 
But  then,  alas  !  a  "venerable  bead." 
Doctor !  I  like  thee,  and  admire  the  zest 
With  which  the  world  believes  that  thou  canst  jest; 
Thy  puns,  like  hares,  still  double  as  they  run. 
And  track  themselves  by  scenting  their  own  fun ; 
Till  earthed,  at  last,  the  jokes  o'er  which  we  sorrowed, 
The  burrowed  rabbits  seem  but  rarebits  borrowed ; 
Yet  still,  remorseless,  you  our  patience  try, 
And  sell  your  ink  to  prove  our  incubi.(^^) 

Dear  Doctor !  take  a  fool's  advice,  and  make 

No  more  bad  puns  for  shabby  Harvard's  sake ; 

And,  Doctor — (here  a  timely  hint  I'll  drop) — 

Talk  no  more  science — i.  e.  "sink  the  shop!" 

Epsom  with  Attic  salt  I  hate  to  find  ; 

True  wit,  's  no  drug — so,  pr'ythee,  scour  thy  mind ! 

Leave  ganglions  to  Bell — and  pills  to  Buchan, 

And,  as  Saxe  wrote  a  satire,  try  if  you  can. 

Do  this — do  something,  or  I'm  much  impressed, 

Your  "Last  Leaf  "{^^)  will  be  thought  by  all  your  best ! 

Saxe  wrote  a  satire(^^) — so  did  Master  Lowell, 
And  so  did — others,  whom  the  public  know  well ; 
And  Saxe  is  droll,  (I  say  it  not  at  random,) 

For  Saxe  did  print — quod  erat  demonstrandum — 

204 


Poetical  Works. 


•AltWAMHlIS  IN  I'llJ.OUV. 


(No  (IroUcr  thing  in  all  experience  lyrical !) 
Yea,  Saxe  did  print  his  poems  as  satirical ! 
0  Funny  Man  !  wouldst  thou  to  greatness  climb  ? 
Twist  proper  names,  and  learn  to  mangle  rhyme ! 
Wouldst  thou  he  famous?  make  each  pun  a  puft"; 
Wouldst  quoted  he  ? — the  path  is  plain  enough  : 
Be  broad  as  Burton,(-^)  and  as  Barnum  bold — 
Make  brass  your  base,  but  galvanize  with  gold ; 
Make  friends  of  editors — to  stop  their  cark, — 
Then  prig  in  peace — like  Knickerbocker  Clark  ! 

Oh !  Clark  !  prince-pauper  of  the  rhyming  crew  ! 
Who  lives  on  "tickle  me — I'll  tickle  you." 
Too  light  my  blade,  perchance,  at  him  to  lunge, 
Whose  monthly  "Table"  is  a  monthly  sponge. 
Absorbing  authors  dead  and  authors  quick — 
A  Ghoul  of  letters— living  by  "  Old  Knick !" 
While  genius  struggles  at  starvation's  gate. 
Smart  talent  dwells  in  comfortable  state  ; 
While  genuine  merit  scarce  a  dog  attends, 
Clark  shows  a  "Gallery"  of  obsequious  friends  ! 
So  true,  that  self-complacent  mediocrities 
Are  more  esteemed  than  Seneca  or  Socrates. 

Does  Putnam  foster  native  worth  ?f ^) — 'tis  weakness ; 
He'll  ne'er  attain  to  Knickerbocker  sleekness. 
Would  he  get  rich  ? — behold  a  bright  example — 
See  brazen  Harper  o'er  all  justice  trample : 

205 


Duganne.  .  ^  , 


^   °  


PARNASSUS  IX  PILLORY. 


Behold  him  cheer  his  hterary  hacks  on, 
To  steal  from  authors,  Gallic,  Scotch,  and  Saxon ! 
0  Putnam  !  gladly  does  the  muse  attest 
Thy  wishes  faithful  to  her  high  behest ! 
While  mouthing  Carey(^^)  voids  his  rheumy  spite, 
And  frothy  Raymond(^^)  barks,  but  dare  not  bite  ; 
While  traitor's  stab,  and  cowards  skulk  behind — 
'Tis  thine  to  battle  for  thy  country's  Mind ! 
Time  settles  all — and  Time  will  make  amends  ; 
For  ''Authors'  Eights"  may  yet  be  Putnam's  friends; — 
When  Harper's  trade  (that's  literary  theft!) 
By  righteous  laws  shall  be  of  shelter  'reft ; 
And  ancient  ''Knick"  remain,  (if  Heaven  chooses,) 
A  "Lying-in-Retreat"  for  naughty  muses. 

Cantab  Longfellow  ! — poet  and  professor ! 
Of  "  Washington's  Head-Quarters"  sole  possessor: 
Beloved  by  booksellers,  adored  of  "  sophs" — 
Lo  !  at  thy  name  my  muse  her  bonnet  doffs  ; 
Yet,  in  the  mighty  name  of  law,  I  venture 
For  debt  thou  owest  the  world  to  make  debenture. 

Not  for  the  debts  thou  owest  a  score  or  less 
Of  foreign  bards,(^^)  who  noAv  wear  Yankee  dress ; 
N"ot  for  thy  clippings  of  old  rusty  coins — 
(Thy  head  enriches  what  thy  hand  purloins ;) 
'Not  for  thy  thought-webs  cribbed  from  monkish  looms  ; 
They're  better  in  thy  tomes  than  in  their  tombs ;  /j 


206 


Poetical  Works, 


I'AUXAHMUS  IN  IMI 


^1     Tliy  iiK'heniy  Iuxh  luiide  imicli  i^old  from  lead, 
^'       So,  "let  tlic  dead  past  bury"  all  "  its  dead  ;" 
For  ancient  wounds  let  silence  be  tlie  suture — 
I  ask  a  debt  tliou  owest  the  awful  future  ! 

Art  and  position,  IIal  !  make  thee  a  poet: 
If  Nature  lends  her  signet,  pray,  let's  know  it ; 
Ilaply  thy  Harvard  fame  immortal  seems. 
Haply  thy  name  and  verse  be  synonj^ms ; 
Yet,  if  thou  wouldst  thy  proper  glory  reach, 
I  say  to  thee,  as  Lear  says, — "  mend  thy  speech  !" 
Cast  oiF  thy  dressing-gown,  and  gird  thy  loins — 
And  learn  what  Deity  on  song  enjoins; 
Thou  hast  portrayed  ideal  wrongs  and  woes  : 
N"ow,  by  my  harp  !  canst  real  wrongs  disclose  ? 
Thou  hast  drawn  tears  for  miseries  long  forgotten : 
Canst  thou  find  nothing  in  our  time  that's  rotten  ? 
Oh  !  that  the  churchyard  Past  were  ransacked  less ! 
These  ghouls,  the  poets,  then  might  mankind  bless : 
If  the  old  catacombs  were  left  to  moulder, 
Gold-mines  of  thought  we'd  find  ere  Pan  grew  older. 

Behold  young  Lowell  .(^^)  in  whose  soul  there  lies 
(Fathoms  below  where  his  own  vision  pries) 
A  grand  new  world,  of  power,  of  love,  of  light, 
Which  yet  may  fiame — a  star  athwart  our  sight ; 
If  the  dull  shocks  of  life's  chaotic  wave 
X     Wash  not  away  the  orb  which  now  they  lave. 

207 


L 


Duganne. 

^  PARNASSUS  IN  PILLORY. 

^/    0  Lowell  !  now  sententious — now  most  wordy — 
j     Thy  harp  Cremona  half — half  hurdy-gurdy ; 

Wouldst  thou  arise  and  climb  the  steeps  of  heaven  ? 
Sandals  and  staff  are  for  thy  journey  given ; 
Wouldst  thou  embrace  the  poet-preacher's  lot 
Nor  purse  nor  scrip  will  lift  thy  steps  a  jot ! 
Forth  on  the  highways  of  the  general  mind, 
Thy  soul  must  walk,  in  oneness  with  mankind. 
Thou  hast  done  well,  but  thou  canst  yet  do  better, 
And,  winning  credit,  make  the  world  thy  debtor. 
Pour  out  thy  heart — albeit  with  flaws  and  fractures : 
Give  us  thyself — not  "Lowell  manufactures 
Then  shall  thy  music  vibrate  through  our  pulse. 
And  all  thy  songs  be  milestones  of  results. 
But  if,  in  thy  true  eagle-like  aspirings. 
The  "  mousing-owl"  of  Harvard  choke  thy  choirings; 
If,  haply,  drugged  with  Tennysonian  theme. 
Thy  genius  stoop  to  dally  and  to  dream ; 
If — worse  than  all — fanaticism  clods 
The  song  which  is  Humanity's — and  God's, — 
Then  may  no  satire  of  thy  being  tell ! 
Then,  Lowell  !  to  thy  fame  "  a  long  farewell  I" 


Hark !  Whittier's  sledge(^^)  upon  the  hearts  of  men 
Beats  in  continual  music — "ten-pound-ten  !" 
Sworn  foe  of  "institutions  patriarchal," 
Black  ground,  he  finds,  gives  gems  a  brighter  sparkle. 

208 


Poetical  Works. 

-   -"^'S- 


I'AKNAHSIIS  IN  IMM-OKV. 


Lo  !  how  ho  comes,  witli  earnest  heart  and  lo^-al, 

Fhmkcd  by  his  ordnance  for  a  battle  royal ; 

Swinging  a  club,  might  stagger  Hercules, 

To  dash  the  mites  from  off  a  mouldering  cheese ; 

Roaring  like  Stentor  from  his  brazen  throat, 

To  drown  some  snappish  spaniel's  yelping  note  ; 

Ah,  WiiiTTiER  !  Fighting  Friend  !  I  like  thy  verse — 

Thy  wholesale  blessing  and  thy  wholesale  curse; 

I  prize  the  spirit  which  exalts  thy  strain, 

And  joy  when  truth  impels  thy  blows  amain ; 

But  really,  friend !  I  cannot  help  suspecting. 

Though  writing's  good,  there's  merit  in  correcting ! 

Hahnemann  likes  best  "the  thirtieth  dilution, "(^^) 

But  poetry  scarce  bears  so  much  diffusion ; 

The  homoeopathic  thought  (though  truth  sublime) 

Dies,  through  materia  medica  of  rhyme ; 

So,  Whittier  !  give  less  lexicon,  and  more 

Good  thought — of  which,  no  doubt,  thou  hast  a  store. 

Give  us,  if  thou  wouldst  sing  a  flying  slave. 

Just  as  few  bars  as  he  or  she  would  crave ; 

And  if  on  "Ichabod"  thou  launchest  malison,(^^) 

Make  it  no  longer  than  two  books  of  Alison. 

And,  further,  Whittier!  '^an  thou  lovest  me," 

Let  thy  chief  subject  for  a  while  go  free  ; — 

Or  else,  (how  frail  "Othello's  occupation !") 

When  slavery  falls,  will  fall  thine  avocation  ! 

Living  the  black  man's  friend,  i'faith,  thou'lt  die  so :  <^ 

A  paraphrase  of  Wilmot's  great  proviso  !(^'^)  ^ 

209  o 

Qg-e^    ^-^^© 


Duganne. 

PARNASSUS  IN  PILLORY. 

Whittier,  adieu  !  my  blows  I  would  not  spare, 
For  when  I  strike,  I  strike  who  best  can  bear ; 
Oft  in  this  rhyme  of  mine  I  lash  fall  hard 
The  man  whom  most  I  love,  as  friend  and  bard ; 
Even  as  the  leech,  inspired  by  science  pure. 
Albeit  he  probe  and  cauterize — must  cure  ! 


Trimountain  !  long  hast  thou  the  Mecca  been 

Of  rhyming  hadgees  garbed  in  natural  green ! 

Trimountain  !  Kaaba — reverently  kissed 

By  Yankee  bards — their  "blarney-stone"  I  wist.(^^) 

To  thee  came  Peabody(^^) — to  thee  came  Doane  ;(^^) 

M'Lellan,(^°°)  Pike,  and  Sprague,  were  all  thine  own: 

Pierpont  and  Everett(^^^)  sang  for  thee  their  strains  ; 

And  savage  Snelling(^°^)  flogged  them  for  their  pains. 

Ah,  me !  if  once  thou  hadst  such  magnet  skill, 

Our  bards  to  sway — I  pray  thee,  use  it  still ! 

"Wake  as  of  old  the  three-stringed  Yankee  lyres. 

And  sound  the  pitchpipe  of  New  England  choirs ; 

Ask  if  John  Neal  no  longer  feels  the  flame 

With  which  he  lit  of  yore  the  bonfire,  fame  ? 

Or  heads  no  more  his  charging  lines,  to  ride 

Booted  and  spurred  through  all  the  country  wide  ? 

Time  was,  when,  vocal  as  his  "fierce  gray  bird," 

In  parish  schools  his  shrieking  lays  w^ere  heard ; 

And  embryo  poets  felt  their  quickening  life. 

When  "Pierpont's  Eeaders"(^*^^)  woke  the  classic  strife  !  1 


Poetical  Works. 

I'AKNA.SSIH   IN  I'lM.OUy. 

Mollifluoiis  l*[i<:iUM)NT  !  whose  Iloratiiiii  odos 
AVcro  counted  licavieat  juiiong  ureliins'  lojids; 
Wlieii  piirsiiii;  tliee,  tliey  s;i\v  tlicir  ti'ials  past, 
Nor  valued  gems  so  painfully  amassed. 
Ah!  many  a  gem  indeed  hath  been  encased 
By  Pierpont's  industry  and  Pierpont's  taste; — 
And  many  a  gem  in  quiet  beauty  glows, 
(Which  Griswold  ne'er  would  venture  to  disclose,) 
Where  Burleigh's  songs,  attuned  with  placid  love, 
Rose  from  his  lips  to  blend  with  those  above ; 
Where  Dawes' (^'^^)  melodious  childhood  passed  away, 
And  Woodworth's(^"^)  genius  framed  its  virgin  lay. 

'Tis  a  coincidence  worth  special  credit, 

That  Sargent  should  the  "Boston  Transcript"(^°^)  edit; 

Strange  the  "  poetic  justice"  does  not  strike  him, 

(I  throw  the  hint  out,  as  I  rather  like  him. 

Because  my  favorite  bards  his  muse  rehearses,) 

Of  putting  "Boston  Transcript"  on  his  verses. 

Poor  man  !  I  mourn  his  euphuistic  grammar, 

I  mourn  "Velasco,"  and  the  "Standard  Drama;" 

I  mourn — but,  no  !  I  wish  him  fame  sincerely : 

"Athens  the  modern"  dubs  her  poets  yearly; 

Perhaps  at  "Annual  Odes"  he'll  distance  Sprague; 

Or  baffle  Emerson  Avith  problems  vague ; — 

Perchance,  like  Pierpont,  prove  'tis  wrong  to  tipple  ; 

Or  ape  Macaulay,  like  sententious  Whipple  !(^"^) 


211 


Duganne, 

.^.-^'ty"-^    

I  PARNASSUS  IN  PILLORY. 

^  O,  Emerson  !  some  transatlantic  Solon  ^ 
S       (As  a  discoverer,  sure,  he  rivals  Colon,) 

Has  found  that  in  thy  brain  (commodious  quarters  I) 
Lives  all  the  poesy  this  side  of  the  waters.  (^*'^) 
Ah,  me  !  methinks  this  critic  spiritual 
Has  proved  thy  favorite  creed — that  man  is  dual. 
Would  that  his  wisdom  mio^ht  reveal  the  fact 
Of  thy  Poetic  Essence — all  intact ! 
Would  that  the  Heart-Beat  of  the  Awful  Whole 
Could  pulse  distinct  and  gauge  thy  Breadth  of  Soul ! 
Till  Sense  Incarnate,  robed  in  Suns  like  Ammon, 
Might  permeate,  and  throb  through  Space — and- 
gammon. 

Speaking  of  gammon — I  destroyed,  last  night, 
(In  several  vain  attempts  to  strike  a  light,) 
Destroyed,  ye  gods  !  a  work  that  would  have  burst 
Like  sunlight  o'er  the  world !  out- rhyming  Hirst — 
Out-mouthing  Lunt — out-agonizing  Emerson — 

Out  hold!  the  idea  brings  increasing  tremors  on. 

It  was  a  poem  upon  the  softer  gender — 
Sublime,  unique,  expressive,  touching,  tender ! 
Such  adjectives!  such  nouns!  such  punctuation! — 
Such  awful  strength !  and  such  alliteration  ! 
In  it  sweet  Edith  May,  with  true  abandon, 
Was  placed  some  twenty  pegs  above  poor  Landon  ; 
SiGOURNEY  plucked  from  Hemans'  brow  the  myrtle, 
And  Hale  was  Sappho — with  a  longer  kirtle  ; — 


9 


v,/~j  Poetical  Works. 

\)i  [j  I'ARNASSrS   IN  I'lI.LOKY. 

vWy     Greenwood  whs  Norton  and  Dc  SUiol  nnited, 
I      And  Blessington  ior  Mistress  Neal  was  slighted. 
To  some  nine  more  I  gave  the  Muses'  names, 
As  PiERSON,  Svvissiielm,  and  kindred  dames. 
Alas  !  that  such  a  poem — on  bards  so  gentle — 
Was  lost — by  conflagration  accidental ; 
Griswold  alone,  in  some  bright  spirit-flashes, 
Can  raise  this  Yankee-phoinix  from  its  ashes. 


But,  apropos — when  poetry's  "the  fashion," 
Women  and  men  alike  must  feel  the  passion : 
Verse-writing 's  very  nice  on  gilt-edged  vellum. 
Crow-quilled  by  some  young  literary  Pelham. 
Let  women  Avrite — their  will  'tis  useless  baulking : 
They  do  less  harm  by  writing  than  by  talking ! 
Write — write !  but  oh !  I  charge  each  rhyming  daughter. 
Let  not  the  men  purloin  your  milk  and  water ! 

Ho  !  for  the  West  !  the  boundless,  buoyant  West ! 
'Tis  monstrous  dull,  when  poetry's  the  quest. 
Wliere  Mississippi's  awful  grandeurs  roll. 
Like  an  eternal  anthem  through  the  soul ; 
Where  tombs  of  empires  rise  in  endless  wo, 
Colossal  epics  of  the  tribes  below ; — 
Where  leaped  the  Mammoth,  with  a  bound  terrific. 
From  Rocky  Mountains  to  the  far  Pacific  ;(^°^) 
Where  border-frays,  that  beat  old  Scottish  forays, 
Impromptu  duels,  and  red  Indian  soirees, — 


^MiL  ^  Duganne, 


PARNASSUS  IN  PILLORY. 


And  all  that  makes  the  human  hah'  most  vertical,  \. 


As  common-place  transactions  are  assert-ical 
Sure,  in  a  clime  so  stirring  and  romantic, 
The  muse  and  Pegasus  must  both  grow  frantic. 

Frantic !  ah,  no  !  the  West,  with  sage  reflection. 

Confines  her  muse  to  pinafore  subjection ; 

And  save  when  Prentice,  (^^^)  after  hock  and  soda. 

Invokes  his  song  as  Fingal  conjured  Loda; — 

Wielding  the  falchion  of  his  classic  wit 

To  oust  the  phantoms  that  around  him  flit; 

Unconscious  all,  that  while,  with  accents  loud, 

He  wooes  his  muse,  his  muse  is  but  a  cloud : 

And  save  when  Gallagher, (^^^)  with  trenchant  stroke, 

Cleaves  out  a  verse  as  woodmen  rend  an  oak, 

And,  haply,  rising  from  the  flat  inane. 

Pipes  on  the  airs  of  heaven  a  golden  strain : — 

Save  and  except,  at  times,  some  bulbul  notes, 

Fresh  from  a  few  sequestered  maidens'  throats. 

That  sometimes  please  and  sometimes  strangely  jar, — 

I  know  not  where  our  western  poets  are. 

^ot  Orton  soars  to  strike  the  highest  chord : 

i     Not  Pike  nor  Patten — nor  Legard  nor  Lord  ! 

i     l^ot  even  Chivers,("^)  from  whose  virgin  muse 
The  graceless  Poe  stole  all  that  she  could  lose, 
Unhappy  Chivers,  whose  transcendent  lays 
A    Are  out  of  place  in  these  degenerate  days, 


I'AIINAMHUH  IN  I'll.I.OIlY, 

And  yet  for  whom,  wore  lialt*  liis  vorscH  burned, 
A  poet's  fume  the  other  luilf  hud  earned, — 
Ah !  not  from  these,  or  bucIi  as  these,  shall  rise 
Innnortal  song  to  occidental  skies. 
When  the  great  Iliad  of  the  sunset  land 
Is  writ,  it  must  be  by  a  Homer's  hand : 
'Till  then,  low-brooding  through  its  busy  life, 
The  Western  Poem  shall  be  Manhood's  Strife ! 
Loud  as  the  thunders  of  thy  surging  woods, 
Broad  and  majestic  as  thine  awful  Hoods, 
Deep  as  thy  soundless  caves,  O  mighty  West ! 
Thus  be  thy  song — an  ocean  in  thy  breast ! 


Kest  thee,  mine  Harp  !  my  wearied  hand  I  fling, 
With  scarce  an  impulse,  o'er  each  quivering  string 
My  thankless  task  hath  reached  its  natural  term — 
Wisdom  its  fruit — though  Folly  was  its  germ. 
Not  mine  to  scathe  with  bitter  jest  the  heart. 
Or  reckless  launch  the  slanderer's  jealous  dart ; — 
iN'ot  mine  to  prostitute  the  gift  of  song, 
To  wreak  revenge  for  real  or  fancied  wrong ; — 
Behind  my  jest  no  covert  malice  slept — 
From  out  my  praise  no  inuendo  crept : 
An  honest  Anglo-Saxon  round  of  blows 
I've  dealt  alike  upon  my  friends  and  foes ; 
And,  if  I  struck  full  oft  within  the  guard — 
Be  sure,  I  might  have  struck  ten  times  as  hard ! 


Duganne, 


NOTES 


|)arnas0iTS  in  JpiUors- 


(1) 

Convened  them  all,then  hrohe  each  harp  and  head. 

The  coup  d'  etat  of  Edward  I.  (so  effectual  that 
the  Cambrian  muse  has  remained  tongue-tied 
ever  since)  might  be  imitated  once  a  century 
with  good  results  in  every  country.  Though 
unmerciful,  it  M'ould  certainly  be  (poetically) 
just. 

(2) 

And  bow  my  heart  to  "Harvard's"  earlier  lyre. 

The  reputation  of  Longfellow  (to  whom  al- 
lusion is  here  made)  will  rest  more  upon  the 
merits  of  his  early  and  less  pretending  lyrics, 
than  upon  the  "Golden  Legend,"  or  even  "Evan- 
geline." 

(3) 

 ask  where  Peter's  keys  are. 

It  is  currently  reported  that  a  question  like 
this  was  propounded  by  a  well-known  travelling 
"  litterateur,"  after  having  been  shown  through 
the  Vatican. 

(4) 

 book  that  Griswold  edits. 

Rufus  Wilmot  Griswold,  D.D.  LL.D.  The 
world  is  indebted  to  this  distinguished  bibliopole 
for  the  celebrated  compendium  of  classic  verse 
known  as  "Griswold's  Poets  and  Poetry  of  Amer- 
ica."  The  work  is,  I  am  told,  still  extant. 

(5) 

 receipts  of  shoemakers  and  drapers. 

Nathaniel  Parker  Willis  will  occupy  no 
small  space  in  the  literary  and  social  history  of 
his  time,  lie  calls  himself  "the  best  abused  man 
in  the  country,"  and  has  managed  to  figure  ex- 
tensively in  poetry,  gossip,  libel  and  divorce 
8uits-at-law,  journalism  and  —  snobism.  The 
printing  (en.  masxe?)  of  his  tradesmen's  bills, 
(when  accused  of  non-payment  of  them,)  was  a 
stroke  of  .advertising  which  certainly  merited  a 
receipt  in  full.  Beau  Brummel  could  have  run 
another  score  on  the  strength  of  it— but  genius 
is  sometimes  unequal. 


(6) 

"3Ii-boy,"  and  "  brigadier. 

"Willis  published  a  daily  paper,  called  "Ths 
Mirror,"  (in  a  street  near  Barnum's  Museum 
and  Drummond  Light,)  in  which  himself  and 
partner  (G.  P.  Morris)  were  affectedly  distin- 
guished as  "mi-boy"  and  "brigadier."  The 
"Mirror"  is  still  printed— but  is  now  little  read, 
and  less  esteemed. 


(7) 

Bayard  Taylor— protege  of  Natty. 
DiXON-like  walked  into  the  "literati." 
J.  Bayard  Taylor  is  a  noted  traveller,  poet, 
lecturer,  and  one  of  the  editors  of  the  N.  Y.  Tri- 
bune. His  infant  muse  was  dry-nursed  by  Wil- 
lis, and  cradled  in  "  The  Mirror,"  after  which  he 
accomplished  apedestrian  tour  over  Europe,  and 
wrote  a  book  called  "  Europe  seen  with  Knap- 
sack and  Staff, "  (rather  singular  mediums  of 
vision.)  George  Washington  Dixon,  the  lite- 
rary-musical-pedestrian, has  walked  more  miles 
than  Taylor,  but  not  with  such  profit  to  himself. 
Since  printing  his  last  batch  of  "  Travels,"  Tay- 
lor has  subsided  into  a  lecturer,  retailing  his 
dollar  books  in  two-shilling  readings— a  plan 
shrewdly  beneficial  to  public  and  author.  As  a 
lecturer,  Bayard  is  as  good  as  Greeley,  and 
Greeley  is  the  worst  in  the  country. 


(8) 

Barnii/m's  poet-laureate. 
Taylor  was  the  winner  of  a  prize  of  $200  offered 
by  the  noted  P.  T.  Barnum  (showman)  for  "the 
best"  song  to  be  sung  by  Jenny  Lind. 

(9) 

Hin-e's  TcrCKERMAN  

Of  Mr.  Henry  T.  Tuckerman  little  is  known 
save  that  he  has  travelled,  and  is  a  critic  in  mat- 
ters of  "awt." 


2l6 


Poetical  Works. 


NOTES  TO  I'ARNASSUS  IN  I'lLKOHY. 


(10) 

Smo'jlh,  uiirliioHH  ISlDimis  

Brig.  Oon.  N.  Y.  Statu  Militiiv,  Kosidont- 
Editor  *'  Homo  Journal,"  Author  of  "  Wood- 
man !  Spare  that  Trco."  Dorai-civil  and  domi- 
martittl,  l>o  blondH  dolicntoly  tlio  strength  of 
Catullus  with  the  tire  of  Wordsworth. 

(11) 

 the  Jinph'il.t  mm  of  mmic-ntores. 

Our  American  music-publishers  are  noted  for 
printing  the  veriest  trash  in  the  shape  of  verse. 
They  "never  mind  the  words,"  so  that  the  re- 
quisite jingle  be  preserved— and  the  renuisito 
economy;  for  more  penurious  follows  than  are 
Bome  of  these  might  seldom  be  met.  Many  a 
dollar  do  they  realize  by  the  sale  of  poetry  for 
which  the  poor  author  never  received  a  penny. 
Let  them  "  adapt"  this  verse,  which  is  furnished 
gratis : 

O  Walker.  Hall,  and  Fiot, 
O  music-selling  trio, 
For  ballads  furnished  free,  O 
Sing  jubilate  deo  ! 

(12) 

 hut,  oh!  since  "Brutus. 

"Brutus,  or  The  Fall  of  Tarquin"  by  John 
Howard  Payne,  the  author  of  "  Home,  sweet 
Home,"  is  one  of  the  very  few  plays  by  Ameri- 
cans that  have  become  stock-pieces  through  their 
own  merit.  "Spartacus,"  "Metamora,"  and 
"  Jack  Cade"  all  owe  their  popularity  to  Ed- 
win Forrest,  the  actor,  for  whom  they  were 
written. 

(13) 

 believe  in  Corny  Mathews. 

Cornelixis  Mathews,  nicknamed  "Puffer  Hop- 
kins," (from  a  novel  with  that  title,  of  which  he 
was  the  unhappy  author,)  wrote  two  plays, 
"Jacob  Leisler"  and  "Witchcraft,"  both  pro- 
duced by  Murdoch,  the  tragedian,  and  both 
played  with  equal  success,  i.  e.  none  at  all.  But 
Mathews  has  always  shown  himself  a  staunch 
advocate  of  the  necessity  of  an  "  International 
Copyright  Law,"  and  for  this  (if  for  no  other 
merit,)  deserves  the  good  will  of  American  au- 
thors. 

(14) 

 for  cash  or  barter. 

It  is  told  of  a  certain  Philadelphia  lessee,  that 
he  was  used  to  offer  to  authors,  for  their  plays, 
"  half  cash— half  truck ;"  the  latter  euphonious 
word  signifying  merchandize,  or  "orders"  for 
seats.  Certes,  one  noted  manager,  who  was  en- 
gaged in  the  "patent-medicine  line,"  was  in  the 
habit  of  underlining  his  bills  of  the  day  with 
quack  advertisements,  {e.g.) 

"Mr.  BRUTUS  KEAN  COOKE, 
Tragedian,  from  the  Theatre  Royal,  Drury  Lane, 

will  appear  on  Thursday  Evening. 
Mdlle  Rosaletta,  the  Celebrated  Danseuse, 

on  Wednesday  Night. 
N.  B. — A  new  American  Play  in  rehearsal. 
N.  B.— The  celebrated  Hydro- Telestic  Pills  and 
Termifxige  Balm,  can  be  had  at  the  Box 
Office  by  the  dozen,  single  box,  or  package." 


(IS) 

 hin  lirokin-llriirtetL 

Mr.  Maynk  Kkid  was  much  addicted  to 
printing  a  poem  called  "The  Broken-Hearted" 
in  every  uufortunato  newspaper  to  which  he  had 
aci-eas.  At  last  ho  (lung  his  lost  hopes  ('"Love's 
Alartyr"  included)  into  the  Mexican  War,  from 
which  he  returned  unharmed,  and  (perhaps  to 
establish  his  reputation  for  boldness)  applied  for 
a  sword  bequeathed  by  Oencral  Jackson  to  the 
"bravest  soldier  of  the  next  war." 

(If,) 

And  proves  by  one  most  nautical"  Ben  Jiolt;" 

That  "Donkey  John"  '«  of  Pegasus  a  colt. 
Dr.  Thomas  Dunn  English  (whom  Poe  so 
mercilessly  noticed  as  "Dunn  lirown")  is  a 
most  incongruous  author ;  has  written  some  of 
the  best  and  worst  things  in  tlic  language.  His 
touching  ballad  of  "Bon  Bolt"  is  a  house-hold 
song.  He  was  at  one  time  principal  writer  for 
a  "  funny"  periodical  printed  in  Philadelphia, 
culled  "John  Donkey"— tiie  best  attempt  at  a 
"Punch"  that  our  dyspeptic  jokers  ever  perpe- 
trated. 

(17) 

Here's  Byron  Bokek  with  a  "sweet  mu-ttache." 

Mr.  Geo.  H.  Boker,  (prajnominated  "Byron" 
by  his  friend  Willis,)  author  of  "Calaynos," 
"Anne  Boleyn,"  "The  Betrothal,"  etc.  "  Calay- 
nos" was  acted  at  Sadler's  Wells,  a  third-rate 
London  pl.ayhouse,  whereat  our  critics  (as  in 
duty  bound)  acknowledged  its  merits.  Boker 
has  genius,  but  inclines  to  the  American  "  lake 
school"  of  Tenuysonian  imitators.  Like  Bay- 
ard Taylor,  he  cultivates  liberally  a  delicate 
hirsute  attraction— a  high  recommendation;  for 
it  is  reported  that  when  the  last-mentioned 
"walking-gentleman"  lectured  at  Kalamazoo, 
(Mich.,)  a  lady  was  asked  her  opinion  of  the 
performance  ;  to  which  she  replied  naicely,  "Oh! 
it  was  excellent !  he  has  such  a  sweet  mustachel" 

(18) 

" Blachstone"  pilloicing  his  majestic  head. 

Henry  B.  Hirst  is  a  lawyer  in  decent  prac- 
tice,—so  his  literary  vagaries  may  not  be  seri- 
ously detrimental  to  his  purse  ;  he  is  counted  a 
"dead  shot"  in  the  sporting  line,  is  a  bird- 
fancier,  amateur  florist,  and  might  be  famous  as 
a  politician ;  dabbles  in  metaphysics,  sometimes 
spoils  canvas,  and  has  modelled  some  exquisite 
lay-figures  in  poetry ;  thinks  himself  remarka- 
bly like  Shakspe.are,  and  t«— for  aught  I  know 
to  the  contrary.  If  I  style  him  "  Zincalo,"  my 
sense  is  "Pickwickian,"  and  not  personal. 

(19) 

"Shahspeare  and  me"  

A  grammatic  expression  peculiar  to  the  au- 
thor of  "Endymion."   As  one  illustration  out  of 


Duganne, 


NOTES  TO  PARNASSUS  IN  PILLORY. 


many,  see  a  Poem  of  Mr.  Hirst's  entitled  "Val- 
ley of  Repose,"  in  which  occurs  the  following 
line : 

"My  bride  and  me  shall  kneel  and  humbly  pray." 
(20) 

 all  the  Smiths  enrol. 

Prophetic  line !  Alexander  (the  Great)  Smith 
has  since  loomed  upon  the  world. 

(21) 

Look  where  Geneva  mocks  a  martyr's  cries. 

If  Servetus,  Seneca,  or  any  of  the  martyrs  to 
an  idea,  could  have  been  consoled  by  the  cer- 
tainty that  their  thoughts  would  survive  them, 
the  bed  of  torture  might  have  seemed  a  couch 
of  roses.  While  Hope  sustains  Genius,  she  is 
invulnerable :  Despair  is  her  agony  and  death- 
travail. 

(22) 

Gin  gratis— and  eight  dollars  each  per  diem. 

This  is  a  portion  of  a  lampoon  which  some 
Michael  Steno,  who  had  not  the  fear  of  great- 
ness before  his  eyes,  wrote  on  the  doors  of  the 
Senate-chamber,  at  Washington,  on  a  certain 
occasion  when  Congress  had  adjourned  to  attend 
the  races. 

(23) 

 "You  lie .'" 

An  expletive  unfortunately  too  familiar  in 
congressional  debate. 

(24) 

No!  "Ellen  Jewett"  his  sleeping  sense  recalls. 
The  "Life"  of  this  wretched  woman  is  one  of 
the  least  objectionable  of  the  class  of  books  al- 
luded to  ;  the  life  of  a  courtezan  murdered  by  a 
libertine.  A  sad  comment  upon  public  taste, 
that  such  works  should  command  extensive 
sale ! 

(25) 

Wrote  Hoffman's  

Charles  Fenno  Hoffman,  the  "  Echo"  poet. — 

(26)  Epes  Sargent,  the  "  Transcript"  poet.— 

(27)  Park  Benjamin,  the  Sonnetteer.  (28)  Ralph 
Waldo  Emerson,  the  Sage.— (29)  Rufus  Dawes, 
the  Clergyman.— (30)  George  Lunt,  author  of 
"The  Age  of  Gold."— (31)  R.  H.  Stoddard, 
youngest  of  the  American  Lake  School. 

(32) 

Harvard  grants  its  benison. 
The  Cambridge  poets,  and  their  imitators,  are 
ineffably  Tennysonian. 

(33) 

 the  "tibia"  of  our  wits. 

The  initials  of  Read's  name,  "T.  B.  R."  have 
been  laid  hold  of  by  classic  wags,  and  the  joke 
contributes  not  a  little  to  the  poet's  reputation. 


(34) 

 titbits  from  a  thousand  "marts." 

I  have  distinguished  this  last  word  by  quo- 
tation-marks, inasmuch  as  it  has  been  so  often 
used  by  Read,  in  his  poems,  that  I  conceive  he 
has  earned  a  pre-emption  right  to  it. 

(35) 

— —  Sybarite  soul. 
If  the  Sybarite  was  incommoded  by  a  rose-leaf 
placed  under  his  couch,  I  fear  my  young  friend 
"Tibia"  will  hardly  relish  the  levity  with 
which  the  satirist  alludes  to  his  mimosa-like 
genius. 

(36) 

 the  "Whig  Review." 

The  "American  Review"  criticised  READ 
with  great  acrimony — and  injustice. 

(37) 

When  Ryndcrs  wields,  like  Hercules,  his  "club." 

The  "  Empire  Club,"  a  political  organization 
of  New  York,  was  long  swayed  by  a  notorious 
bar-room  politician,  called  Captain  Rynders. 


 from  Post  to  Post. 

William  Cullen  Bryant,  the  poet  of  nature,  is 
likewise  editor  of  the  "  New  York  Evening 
Post,"  a  staunch  partizan  journal,  devoted  to 
the  democratic  side  of  politics. 


 making  him  a  classical  Procrustes. 

The  coolness  with  which  the  old  robber 
lopped  or  stretched  his  hapless  guests,  to  pro- 
portion them  to  the  dimensions  of  his  iron- 
bedstead,  was  not  a  bad  ante-type  of  that  modern 
sang-froid  which  would  reduce  all  orders  of 
genius  to  a  standard  medium.  When  will  the 
world  come  to  Mrs.  Malaprop's  conclusion  re- 
specting "  comparisons  ?" 

(40) 

 a  neio  Antceus  is. 

The  classic  giant's  name  affords  me  a  good 
rhyme. 

(41) 

 Astor's  clerk. 

FiTZ  Gree.ve  Halleck,  a  fine  lyrist,  and  a 
satirist,  of  some  pretensions,  (as  his  poem  enti- 
tled "Fanny"  evinces,)  was  during  twenty  years 
a  confidential  clerk  of  the  millionaire,  J.J.  Astor. 
who,  at  his  death,  bequeathed  the  poet  an  an- 
nuity. For  some  unexplained  reason,  Ilalleck 
long  ago  abandoned  the  harp  which  he  often 
struck  with  true  bardic  fury. 


Poetical  Works. 


NOTIOS  TO  I'AUN'ASSIIS  IN  ril,l,()UY. 


(42) 

Like  cifreeU  dnmn'd  

Afrocts  (nccorilingto  Eastern  siiporstition)  aro 
evil  spirits  haunting  dosort  i)lacu8 ;  onco  angels, 
but  condemned  to  suffer  for  tlieir  neglect  of  high 
duties. 

(43) 

Thou'lt  dare  the  flames  of  even  a  critic'H  hr.U. 

R.  H.  Stoddahp,  like  many  a  young  author, 
has  allowed  himself  to  be  "  coddled"  too  much,  by 
the  literary  old  women  who  delight  in  poetic 
bantlings.  He  may  yet,  however,  have  nerve 
enough  to  follow  my  advice ;  though  I  doubt 
if  Orpheus  himself  ever  attempted  so  deep  or 
ao  infernal  a  descent  as  the  gulf  of  American 
criticism ;  but  our  young  poet  is  said  to  be 
■writing  a  Plutonian  epic,  and  may  possibly  ac- 
climate himself  to  calorie  before  that  is  finished. 

(44) 

Reckless  of  Duyckinck  

The  brothers  Duyckinck  (two  young  men 
of  classic  attainments)  edited  for  several  years 
a  journal  called  the  "  Literary  World,"  a  sort 
of  Areopagus,  which  determined  on  the  claims 
of  sopbomoric  and  blue-stocking  authors. 

(45) 

 (hey  called  him  "Echo." 

An  article,  charging  Hoffman  with  plagiar- 
ism, imitation  of  Moore,  &c.,  appeared  in  an 
English  magazine,  whereupon  our  author 
printed  a  collection  of  his  poems,  calling  it 
"The  Echo";  decidedly  a  too  suggestive  title, 
as  it  turned  out. 

(46) 

Equal  to  Waller's  "  richest"  so)\gs,  or  Herrick's. 

An  "opinion  as  is  an  opinion,"  by  the  author 
of  "  Griswold's  Poets  and  Poetry  of  America." 
See  art.  "  Hoffman." 

(47) 

 a  sort  of  "proctor. 

A  "  proctor"  is  a  college  officer.  I  make  this 
explanation,  that  no  malicious  reader  may  seek 
to  discover  any  sinister  allusion  to  the  bard 
of  that  name.  Hoffman  is  at  least  not  Barry 
Cornwall's  "Echo"— and  never  will  be. 

(48) 

Once  Percival,  

James  G.  Percival  gave  promise  of  much 
greatness ;  but  his  muse  was  evidently  too  clas- 
sic for  our  work-a-day  world,  and  so  subsided 
into  common-place. 

(49) 

 Fosdick—or  Bethune  ! 

Why  these  names  are  juxta-posed  is  imma- 
terial. W.  W.  FOSDICK  is  a  humorous,  pathetic,, 
and  bathotic  Western  writer,  who  strings  his 


hurp  with  pearls  nnd  onions,  and  mixes  meta- 
physics and  metaphor,  science  and  sciolism, 
into  divers  palatable  dislioH  of  rhyme.  CiEOKUK 
W.  liKnii  NK  is  a  clever  clergymau,  with  a  ta- 
lent at  making  verses. 

m 

And  heedless  all  of  /ire-holts  round  his  steeple. 

John  PiKitroNT  is  extensively  known  as  a 
prose  and  poetic  champion  of  cold  water.  He 
was  at  one  time  engaged  in  a  fierce  controversy 
with  his  parishioners,  many  of  whom,  being  in- 
terested in  the  very  profitable  business  of  dis- 
tilling, naturally  took  umbrage  at  their  jiastor's 
zoal  in  the  cause  of  temperance.  Many  futile 
efforts  were  made  to  oust  the  reverend  poet 
from  his  pulpit,  which  I  think  he  hold  by  a  life- 
tenure.  I  forget  how  the  matter  ended,  but  re- 
collect the  steeple  of  Pierponfs  church  was 
twice  struck  by  lightning  during  the  division 
of  his  flock. 

(51) 

The  charms  of  "Adam's  Ale"  were  sung  by 
Wallace. 

A  volume  of  Cold  Water  Melodies,  written  by 
William  Ross  Wallace,  was  printed  at  Boston 
in  1840,  or  earlier.  It  is  a  pity  that  the  poet  did 
not  continue  in  the  faith  of  cold  water;  but, 
alas!  in  years  past,  Gotham  has  beheld  many 
fine  geniuses  go  down  to  the  grave,  victims  to 
their  self-indulgence,  in  spite  of  every  effort 
put  forth  to  save  them. 

(52) 

 lilie  CnxTER's,  ^069  by  "steam." 

In  allusion  to  a  stirring  lyric,  written  by  Geo. 
W.  Cutter,  a  Western  poet. 

(53) 

If  fierce  as  Neal's  

John  Neal,  of  Portland,  Me.,  a  bard  of  ac- 
knowledged genius,  and  much  eccentricity. 

C&4) 

 like  milk-and-uater  COE's. 

Coe  is  not  selected  personally  as  an  aqua- 
lacteal  specimen,  but  rises  to  the  dignity  of  a 
type  of  his  class ;  i.  e.  the  tuneful  choir  who 
contribute  to  the  classic  pages  of  Peterson's 
and  Godey's  magazines,  and  occasionally  min- 
ister to  the  necessities  of  needy  printers,  by 
publishing  "collections"  of  their  "poems." 

(55) 

If  GrisxDold  shrine  thee,  or  if  Graham  scorn. 
Time  was  when  Graham,  of  magazine  me- 
mory, was  quite  a  Maecenas  of  youthful  scrib- 
blers; but,  alas!  his  glory  has  departed.  The 
triangular  duel  between  himself  and  Griswold, 
and  the  ghost  of  poor  Poe,  was  the  last  exploit 
of  Graham. 


3= 


Duganne. 


NOTES  TO  PARNASSUS  IN  PILLORY. 


(56) 

—  choices  the  English  worse  than  Thiiggists. 

We  doubt  if  any  Thuggist,  expert  though  he 
might  be,  could  ever  have  strangled  an  English 
nabob  with  more  adroitness  than  Willis  ex- 
hibits in  his  constant  attacks  on  the  English 
language. 

(57) 

 tells  tales  of  peers. 

Was  it  "Jottings  down  in  London,"  or  some 
other  of  Willis's  gossip,  that  rehearsed  the  din- 
ner-talk of  English  nobility? 

(58) 

LiJce  Mah'met's  coffin  

The  prophet's  coffin  is  said  to  be  suspended 
by  powerful  loadstones  at  some  height  from  the 
earth. 

(59) 

Reads  De  Trobriand  in  an  English  guise. 
De  Trobriand  was  a  Frenchman,  who  con- 
ducted with  much  ability  the  "Revue  du  Nou- 
ve.au  J/onrfe"— rendered  into  copious  English 
through  the  Home  Journal ;  in  spite  of  which 
it— deceased. 

(60) 

Moulding  from  dragons'  teeth  its  armed  men. 
I  admire  the  beauty  of  this  classic  myth. 
It  is  a  blessed  thing  that  Nature  works  out  her 
own  beautiful  results,  through  the  most  un- 
shapely means.  Who  knows  but  that  the  spec- 
tacle of  a  talented  man,  making  a  show  of  him- 
self, may  be  ordained  on  the  principle  which 
led  the  ancient  Lacedemonians  to  exhibit  an 
inebriated  slave  to  their  children— to  disgust 
them  with  the  sin  of  drunkenness. 

(61) 

 -upheld  by  Freeman  Scott. 

For  the  benefit  of  the  ignorant  reader,  I  will 
state  that  Mr.  Freeman  Scott  is  a  poetic  Cur- 
tius,  who  threw  himself  into  the  gulf  of  nulli- 
fication, and  (in  a  Pickwickian  sense)  saved  the 
country.  He  wrote  a  "  Song  for  the  Union," 
and  offered  a  prize  of  $50  for  appropriate  music, 
to  which  it  was  in  fact  sung,  at  the  great  Union 
meeting  of  15,000  unterrified  patriots  in  the 
Chinese  Museum,  Philadelphia.  He  deserves 
immortality— and  shall  have  it. 

(62) 

Though  Pike  shall  bawl  

Albert  Pike  is  one  of  the  Western  poets  who 
has  some  claim  to  merit,  though  not  to  the  ex- 
tent claimed  by  a  few  of  his  admirers. 

(63) 

Though  Simms  

William  Gilmoue  Simms  has  written  some 
passable  novels,  but  is  not  a  poet,  and  his  epic 
of  "  Florida"  will  not  live  as  long  as  Paradise 


Lost.  However,  as  very  little  is  known  of  the 
work,  (which  is  the  case  with  most  lengthy 
American  poems,)  perhaps  Ponce  de  Leon's 
draught  may  be  mixed  up  with  it:  so  I  shall 
not  be  positively  negative  concerning  Simms's 
prospect  of  immortality. 

(64) 

Though  light-horse  Street  

ALrRED  B.  Street:  who  writes  up  Indian 
loves  and  sorrows  into  metrical  tales. 

(65) 

Though  Hosmer  

W.  H.  Hosmer  ditto 

(66) 

Fearing,  like  Raleigh,  danger  if  he  climb. 
Sir  Walter's  celebrated  couplet,  and  Queen  Eli- 
zabeth's rejoinder,  are  so  well  known  that  their 
repetition  here  is  hardly  worth  the  space  occu- 
pied—  nevertheless,  it  may  be  as  well  to  say 
that,  on  one  occasion,  the  maiden  queen  ob- 
served young  Kaleigh  write  with  a  diamond 
upon  a  pane  of  glass — 

"  Fain  would  I  climb,  but  that  I  fear  to  fall ;" 
whereupon,  (when  he  had  departed,)  she  wrote 
beneath— 

If  thy  heart  fail  thee,  do  not  climb  at  all." 

(67) 

Thy  "Blacksmith"   

The  "Blacksmith's  Night,"  is  one  of  Hoyt's 
best  poems. 

(68) 

— —  Harris  is  he  hight. 
Rev.  Thos.  L.  Harris:  quite  a  noted  "me- 
dium" among  the  Spiritualists,  who  asserts  that 
spirits  of  departed  poets  speak  through  him, 
(while  entranced.)  He  has  already  produced 
two  epics,  and,  as  they  sell  rapidly,  I  doubt  not 
the  afflatus  will  continue.  As  fanciful  improvi- 
sations, Harris's  poems  might  be  curious;  but 
as  emanations  from  Dante,  Tasso,  Milton,  (and 
others  of  equal  pretensions,)  they  are  unworthy 
of  criticism. 

(69) 

 as  the  victims  of  Phalaris. 

Phalaris  was  a  Grecian  tyrant,  who  caused  a 
bull  to  be  made  of  hollow  brass,  into  which  he 
thrust  a  victim,  and  then  heated  red-hot,  till  the 
sufferer's  groans  made  the  bull  seem  to  roar. 

(70) 

Until  the  shining  lines  of  heaven's  topography. 

Harris  gives  elaborate  descriptions  of  all  the 
ajipearances  of  the  planets— their  mountains, 
valleys,  etc. 

(71) 

 k-iss  plain  Tarn  Mackellar. 

Mackellar  is  a  poet  of  modest  pretensions 
but  of  much  real  merit,  residing  in  Philadelphia. 


220 


Poetical  Works. 


NOTKS  TO  PAUNASHUH  IN  riLI.OUY. 


(72) 

Hani  of  "t'AU  t  ha"  and  of  "Li/onndalr." 
"Caloli  lij  on  of  Lyauschilo"  iouminlorn  trou- 
baJour ;  poniiinK  at  Sau  Fnviici»co  ii  lyric  for 
tho  "  Eureka  Stiito"—  cimiitiiig  somi-Simniiih 
biilluilg  througlv  Soutli  Aiiiorica— iiiio.stropliii- 
iiig  Jenny  Liud  in  Qotiium,  and  "  stinupiug" 
himself  into  CougroBS  by  poetic  spooeh-making 
in  general. 

(7:{) 

Linlctil  the  Pacific  with  thine  own  grmt  name. 

Among  Lyou'sachievoinents  mustnotbe  forgot- 
ten the  design  of  tho  California  State  Seal— for 
which  he  received  $1000  and  a  place  in  the 
"golden  arohivos."  This  is  ovon  bettor  than 
being  "sung  in  all  the  churches,"  like  General 
George  P.  Morris. 

JUalign  thy  "  hear"  by  calling  it  a  bore. 
A  *'  grizzly  bear"  formed  part  of  tho  seal-do- 
sign  mentioned  above.    Tho  Mexicans  in  Cali- 
fornia were  first  dofoated  by  the  Americans, 
under  a  flag  with  this  device. 

(75) 

 in  Pers-ia  and  Cathay. 

The  bard  of  Lyonsdale  is  noted  for  his  trans- 
lations from  Hatiz,  the  Persian,  and  Souchong- 
Bohea,  (if  we  quote  right,)  the  Slianghai  bard. 

(76) 

 like  Taylor's,  through  banditti. 

In  his  "  travels,"  while  traversing  Mexico, 
Taylor  was  tied  to  a  tree,  and  I'obbed  by  Mexi- 
can footpads.  "We  cannot  think  that  our  young 
Ba3'ard  emulated  the  chevalier  "  satis  j)eur  et 
mni*  reproche,"  in  his  Mexican  adventure. 
But  all  our  poets  are  not  expected  to  be  Koer- 
ners;  or,  perhaps,  Taylor's  fame  (unlike  that 
of  Ariosto)  had  not  preceded  Mm  among  the 
"  moon's  minions." 

(77) 

 that  polymathic  xconder.  Story  ! 

The  son  of  Judge  Story;  (said  to  be  a  miracle 
of  Boston  learning.) 

(78) 

And  so  does  Dana  

A  new  edition  of  Richard  Dana's  poems  has 
lately  appeared,  inoluding  "  The  Buccaneer," 
with  its  "spirit  oorso,"  familiar  as  of  old. 

(79) 

Great  Jove  !  even  Sprague  — — - 
Charles  Sprague,  a  Boston  banker,  who, 
many  years  ago,  wrote  a  poem,  called  "  Curi- 
osity," and  has  ever  since  been  one  of  Boston's 
poetic  fossils. 

(80) 

Wliere  Peter  Parley  sings  

Sam.  G.  Goodrich,  the  worthy  coneoctor  of 
children's  books,  is  also  addicted  to  rhyme. 
(81) 

 and  Fields  is  quoted. 

James  G.  Fields  is  one  of  the  partners  in  the 
publishing  house  of  Ticknor,  Reed  and  Fields, 
at  Boston.  Fields  is  piquant,  quite  laklah,  and 
passably  clever. 


(82) 

liontonia't  Helicon  is  Coehituate. 

Tho  Cochituate  water  (as  any  Bostunian  will 
assure  you)  is  a  perfectly  innocent  boverngo. 

O  Doctor  IIOLMBS!   

O.  W.  Ilolmos  has  written  some  very  humor- 
ous poetry,  and  is  a  genial  and  versatilo  writer; 
but  hu  makes  execrable  puns. 

m 

And  sell  your  ink  to  prove  our  incubi. 
For  the  perpetration  of  these  enormities,  I 
plead  in  excuse  my  desire  to  present  the  reader 
with  a  sample  of  the  doctor's  own  assortment. 
(S.5) 

Your  "Lust  Leaf"  

Holmes's  "Last  Leaf"  is  a  poem  of  decided 
merit. 

(8C) 

Saxe  wrote  a  satire  

JoH.v  G.  Saxe,  editor  of  a  paper  in  Burling- 
ton, Vt.,  has  acquired  quite  a  reputation  for 
humour,  but  is  inferior  to  Holmes  as  a  poet. 
(87) 

Be  broad  as  Burton  

W.  E.  BuRTO.v,  a  theatrical  manager  and 
comedian;  a  graceful  writer,  but  exceedingly 
coarse  in  much  of  his  dramatic  delineation. 
(87*) 

O  Clark  !  prince-pauper  of  the  rhyming  crew. 

Gaylord  Clark,  of  the  Knickerbocker  Maga- 
zine, (though  doubtless  a  very  good  fellow,)  is  a 
most  unmitigated  eleemosynary  object  in  tha 
way  of  gratis-contributions,  out  of  which,  and 
Joe  JVliller,  he  serves  up  a  monthly  olla-podrida 
of  pathos  and  bathos.  He  has  lately  published 
a  volume  called  tho  "  Knickerbocker  Gallery," 
made  up  of  articles  furnished  by  authors  ambi- 
tious of  having  their  interesting  faces  exhibited 
to  the  public  ia  a  sort  of  Valhalla  of  American 
genius. 

(88) 

Does  Putnam  foster  native  worth  ? 
Geo.  P.  Putnam,  I  verily  believe,  has  en- 
deavoured to  act  manfully  by  native  authors, 
and  deserves  their  good-will.  Though  in  speak- 
ing well  of  Putnam,  (the  man,)  I  am  far  from 
endorsing  the  vapidity  of  some  later  issues  of  the 
"  Monthly,"  since  it  lost  its  original  editor.  As 
for  Harper  and  his  coadjutors,  they  will,  it 
is  to  be  hoped,  find  their  level  before  long. 
(89) 

While  mauthing  Carey  

This  is  Henry  C.  Carey,  a  New  Jersey  gentle- 
man, who  seems  to  be  afflicted  with  the  scrib- 
bling Quixotism  to  a  degree  which  makes  him 
hazard  a  literary  tilt  at  every  sort  of  windmill. 
(90) 

And  frothy  Raymond  - 

Henry  J.  Raymond,  editor  of  the  New  York 
Times,  and  Lieutenant-Governor  of  that  State ; 
an  uneasy  little  man,  who  is  continually  getting 
into  hot-water.  His  opposition  to  copyright  is, 
however,  very  explicable  and  excusable,  as  his 
partner  in  the  "Times"  is  one  of  the  "Harpers." 


Duganne, 


NOTES  TO  PARNASSUS  IN  PILLORY. 


P4 


(91) 

Of  foreign  hards  

Longfellow  owes  much  to  his  familiarity  with 
European  literature — vide  his  translations  and 
the  general  tone  of  his  original  matter. 
(92) 

Behold  young  Lowell  !  

James  Russell  Lowell  has  given  more  abso- 
lute promise,  and  less  fulfilment,  than  any 
young  bard  of  our  country.  A  man  of  genius 
should  be  ever  on  the  march,  and  Lowell  loiters 
too  much  by  the  way-side.  He  should  take  a  few 
hints  from  his  own  "  Fable  for  Critics." 
(93) 

Hark !  Whittier's  sledge  

John  G.  "Whittier,  despite  the  sameness  of  his 
muse,  has  won  a  reputation  for  strength  and 
boldness  which  is  noticeable  enough  in  this  age 
of  puerility.  He  possesses  great  vigor  of  ex- 
pression, but  is  often  very  prolix. 

(94) 

Hahneuann  liJces  best  "the  thirtieth  dilution." 

The  "  thirtieth  dilution"  is  said  to  be  the  best 
proportion  in  homoeopathy. 

(95) 

And  if  on  "Ichabod"  thou  launchest  malison. 

"  Ichabod"  was  the  caption  of  a  poem  which, 
in  no  half-way  strain,  arraigned  a  celebrated 
statesman  for  his  reputed  backslidings.  I  re- 
gretted this,  because,  while  I  hold  poetry  to  be 
a  fitting  medium  for  the  promulgation  of  great 
truth,  defence  of  humanity,  liberty,  etc.,  I 
hardly  esteem  it  the  proper  vehicle  of  equivo- 
cal personalities  or  abusive  strictures.  The 
true  poet  is  of  no  Lsm  nor  creed,  per  se.  Whit- 
tier is  a  true  poet— but  it  is  not  in  his  negro- 
philism  that  this  fact  is  most  apparent.  James 
Russell  Lowell— ditto. 

(96) 

A  paraphrase  of  Wibnot's  great  proviso  ! 

A  political  measure,  brought  before  Congress, 
by  a  worthy  Pennsylvaniau  named  David  Wil- 
mot,  who  was  at  one  time  threatened  with  un- 
premeditated immortality,  but  is  now  totally  out 
of  danger. 

(97) 

Trimouaitain  !  Kadba. — reverently  Jcig.ted 

By  Yan1<ee  hards — theii  "blarney-stone"  I  wist. 

Blackstone  was  the  founder  of  the  "  Modern 
Athens."  The  Kaaba  is  a  "black  stone"  at 
Mecca,  held  in  high  veneration  by  all  true 
Moslems,  on  whom  a  pilgrimage  to  Mecca  con- 
fers the  title  of  "  hailgee,"  and  the  distinction 
of  wearing  a  green  turban.  The  "blarney- 
stone"  is  familiar  to  the  authors  who  deal  much 
with  publighers. 

(98) 

To  thee  came  Peabody, 

Peabody,  a  poor  poet.  (99)  Doane,  a 

bishop,  and  ditto. —  (100)  McLellan,  ibid.— 
(101)  Everett,  very  classic,  poet  of  Harvard. 
Secretary  of  State  under  Fillmore,  and  a  poor 
poet;  famous  for  a  nauseous  rhyme,  vie  :— 
"  For  Roman  hearts  shall  long  be  sick, 
When  men  shall  think  of  AUric  !" 


(102) 

And  samage  Snelling  • 
William  J.  Snelling,  author  of  a  pungent 
satire,  entitled  "Truth,  a  Gift  for  Scribblers,"  in 
which  the  rhymers  were  handled  without  gloves. 
(103) 

"WJien  Pierpont's  Readers"  

"  Pierpont's  Readers"  were  school-books  much 
in  vogue  in  New  England,  and  many  an  urchin 
have  they  assisted  to  his  "  nine  parts  of  speech." 
(104) 

Where  Dawes  

Dawes  is  now  a  Swedenborgian  clergyman 
at  Washington,  D.  C. 

(105) 

And  Woodworth's  genius  

Samuel  Woodwokth  was  the  author  of  "  The 
Old  Oaken  Bucket." 

(106) 

 the  "Boston  Transcript"  edit. 

This  is  a  long-established  Boston  sheet,  and, 
doubtless,  well-conducted  by  the  poet,  who, 
however,  has  been  sometimes  accused  of  venial 
plagiarisms.  Sargent  is  the  author  of"  Ve- 
lasco,"  a  tragedy,  and  at  one  time  edited  "The 
Standard  Drama,"  a  catch-penny  republication 
of  English  plays. 

(107) 

 liJce  sente7itious  Whipple. 

Edwin  P.  Whipple  is  a  young  man,  who,  by 
dint  of  industry  and  tolerable  imitative  powers, 
has  become  a  sort  of  Boston  Macaulay;  writes 
essays,  and  lectures. 

(108) 

 all  the  poesy  this  side  of  the  waters. 

It  was  asserted  by  a  British  Review  that 
Emerson  was  the  only  true  American  poet. 

(109) 

From  Rocky  Mountains  to  the  far  Pacific. 
For  a  succinct  account  of  this  marvellous 
leap,  vide  Hirst's  "Coming  of  the  Mammoth." 

(110) 

 assert'ical, 

A  Willie-ian  license. 

(Ill) 

And  save  when  Prentice  — ■ — 
George  D.  Prentice,  editor  of  the  Louisville 
Journal,  has  written  some  fine  fragmentary 
poems,  which,  as  "  specimen  bricks,"  make  us 
mourn  for  the  symmetric  temple— to  which  they 
are  not  the  index. 

(112) 

And  save  when  Gallagher  

W.  D.  Gallagher  is  a  Washington  clerk  now; 
when  an  editor,  he  wrote  tolerable  poetry. 

(113) 

Not  even  Chivers  

Thos.  H.  Chivers,  M.  D.,  of  Georgiii,  has 
written  some  good  rhymes,  but  is  haunted  by 
dead  poets,  and  passes  his  life  in  an  insane  at- 
tempt to  prove  that  POE  gained  his  reputation 
by  plagiarizing  from  Chivers.  Let  the  doctor 
leave  logic,  and  try  to  write  poetry,  which  is 
more  hi*  forte  than  criticism. 


i 


Poetical  Works. 


mxUtsi  Mtsiiw^. 


Duganne, 


f 


^0  i\)t 
JHams  of  i])t  MtK^ 
in  JHtxu  iattks  il^Jr, 
^nij  to  all  t\)t  f)apksj5  ii'ii'it^, 
^uff£riTto[  still,  Rnl3  still  for^iiim^, 
Sacr^ii  Iz 
SgEfliat        tJ5  saili: 
f[s  a  mtmors  of  ttc  ^ast, 

(IKrant, 

Its  meanings  last. 


Poetical  Works, 


MC^  — 

A  WAR  ECLOGUE. 


'  Our  Countrt— right  or  wrong  !"— Decatur. 


TRUMPET-SONC. 


i 


ARK !  'tis  the  battle  peal ! 

The  foe  hath  crossed  our  borders  : 
The  dogs  who  wait  at  our  country's  gate 
Would  slay  its  valiant  warders. 
Brave  hearts,  prepare  you  ! 
The  foes  who  dare  you 
Are  bold  and  strong ! 

But,  war  to  the  proud  oppressor ! — 

War  to  the  rude  aggressor ! 

Our  Country !  may  she  ne'er  be  wrong ! — 

And  while  she's  right,  God  bless  her ! 
225 


Duganne. 

MANIFEST  DESTINY. 

Chant  ye,  in  battle's  hour, 

The  Alamo's  bloody  story. 
Of  Goliad's  day,  and  Bexar's  fray, 
And  wild  Jacinto's  glory ! 
Their  souls  shall  lead  you 
Whose  blood  has  freed  you — 
A  glorious  throng ! 
Then  war  to  the  proud  oppressor ! 
War  to  the  rude  aggressor ! 
Our  Country !  may  she  ne'er  be  wrong  !• 
And  while  she's  right,  God  bless  her ! 


II. 

THE  RUBICON. 

It  were  a  glorious  strife  to  guard 

The  ramparts  of  our  land — 

And  at  her  portals  stand. 
Hurling  back  the  invading  hordes ; 
But  to  stain  our  patriot  swords 

With  the  blood  of  those  who  never 
Eaised  the  hostile  hand. 

Save  in  Freedom's  bold  endeavor, 
Foreign  foemen  to  withstand, —  " 

Is  but  lust,  and  wrong,  and  crime — 

Branding  us  to  endless  time. 


^IIQjIj^       Poetical  Works, 


MANIKKST  DKHTINV. 


And  they  are  mad  who  counsel  now 

The  fetters  and  the  steel, 

Our  triumph  dark  to  seal : 
Better  far  the  olive-wreath 
Offer  now,  than  flames  and  death. 
Pause,  ye  rash,  unthinking  zealots  ! 

Ere  ye  rivet  chains  ! 
Freedom  brooks  nor  kings  nor  helots — 

Crowns  and  whips  alike  disdains. 
Better  now  in  glory  pause. 
Than  to  break  great  Freedom's  laws  ! 

Christian  men  !  w^ho  lift  your  hearts 
To  Heaven,  this  day,  in  prayer — 
And  lay  your  conscience  bare, — 
Know  YE  not,  that  War  and  Wrong 
Can  never  make  your  temples  strong? 
Know  ye  not  that  blood  and  battles 

Are  not  from  the  Lord  ? 
Serve  ye  God's  great  laws,  or  Yattel's 

Bear  ye  gospels,  or  the  sword  ? 
Lo !  on  high  the  record  stands — 
Ye,  like  Pilate,  wash  your  hands ! 


Duganne. 

MANIFEST  DESTINY. 
III. 

TRIUMPH. 

Destiny!  Destiny! 
Warder !  look  forth  !  sound  now  the  warning  cry — 

Give  the  alarum-word ! 
Lo !  the  Destroyer  of  the  Free  draws  nigh : 
Swings  the  dread  balance  midway  from  on  high — 
The  wall  with  fire  is  scored : 
Ambition  whets  his  sword ! 

War!  war!  war! 
What  says  this  Christian  nation  to  the  world  ? 

Earth  with  our  threats  is  rife  : 
Heaven  hath  beheld  our  crimson  flag  unfurled — 
In  flaming  wrath  our  armies  have  been  hurled 
Against  a  nation's  life  ! 
War  to  the  bloody  knife  ! 

Raise  ye  your  pgean  loud 
For  the  man-slayers  !  Crown  the  crimson  brows 

Of  your  wild  hero  crowd 
With  mural  diadems !  Arouse — arouse  ! 
Come  from  your  wheels,  your  altars,  and  your  ploughs ; 
Come  ye  whom  toil  has  boAved — 
Hail  ye  those  warriors  proud  ! 

Hail  ye  those  hearts  of  flame  ! 
And  twine  your  flow'rs,  and  weave  j'our  garlands  bright, 
And  peal  each  warrior's  name : 
228 

^^^^^    


Poetical  Works. 

s/.^^    --o^sSig.  . 

MANIKKST  DICSTINY.  -i^Wy^ 

They  have  held  Christian  throats  in  murderous  light; 
They  have  spread  fire,  and  pestilence,  and  blight ;  ^ 
They  have  sown  death  and  shame  : 
Rear  ye  the  arch  of  Fame  ! 

Slaves  of  the  South — arise ! 
Clang  ye  your  gyves,  to  swell  the  cymbals'  sound — 

Lift  your  exulting  eyes  ! 
Lo !  your  white  masters  have  new  victims  found — 
Comrades  ye  have — in  war's  red  bondage  bound : 
Ye  shall  hear  answering  cries, 
Swelling  your  gasping  sigbs. 

Wbite  slaves  of  Northern  gold ! 
Build  ye  a  Teocalli — where  the  foes 

Of  our  ambition  bold 
May  writhe  beneath  our  Anglo-Saxon  blows, 
And  shriek  their  curses  in  expiring  throes — 

Curses  that  shall  be  told 

TillEternity  is  oldJ 


Destiny !  Destiny ! 
Lo !  'tis  our  mission  to  pour  out  the  tide 

Of  our  heart-blood,  and  die. 
With  foeman's  corse  stretched  ghastly  by  our  side ; 
Or  live  and  trample  him  in  vengeful  pride : 

This  is  our  mission  high — 

Gospel  of  Liberty ! 

229 

@S-e^~    ^-<^W^- 


i 


Duganne, 

 ^ 


MANIFEST  DESTINY. 


We  preach  great  Freedom's  creed  ?  fl^ 
We  ?  with  our  heels  upon  the  writhing  necks 

Of  millions  yet  unfreed, 
Whose  gasping  prayers  the  soul  of  Justice  vex  ? 
We  !  who  upon  a  crumbling  nation's  wrecks 
Would  build  a  pyramid 
Where  millions  more  might  bleed  ? 

Sparta-like,  would  we  found 
A  Helotage? — Eome-like,  usurp  the  sway 
Of  a  world  in  slavery  bound  ? 
Lo  !  in  their  might  those  wrongs  were  swept  away  ! 
What  shall  be  our  palladium  from  decay, 

When  Rome,  with  triumph  crown' d, 
Fell,  crumbling,  to  the  ground  ? 


Destiny !  Destiny ! 
Hark  !  the  slain  Prophets  warn  us  from  above — 

The  Past  uplifts  its  cry ! 
Tame  ye  the  Eagle  !  send  ye  forth  the  Dove ! 
Land  of  my  heart,  my  life,  my  home,  my  love ! 

Cast  not  God's  warning  by — 

Preach  thou  true  liberty ! 


Poetical  Works. 


5^ 


MANIKKST  DKSTINY. 


IV. 


lO  P(EAN. 


Ho  !  yc  who  lit  your  triumph  fires, 


And  waved  your  thousand  banners — 
When  brothers,  husbands,  sons,  and  sires, 


Met  on  the  south  savannas ! — 
When  human  blood  like  water  ran, 


And  men  sank  down  like  cattle, 
From  Palo  Alto's  bloody  van 
To  Churubusco's  battle ! 

Ho !  ye  who  hailed  each  victory 

With  cannon  salutations. 
And  dazzled  mountain,  plain,  and  sea. 

With  grand  illuminations, — 
Lo  !  Mexico  hath  bent  the  knee — 

Her  grief  and  pain  she  stifles : 
Ye 've  manifested  Destiny — 

With  Anglo-Saxon  rifles ! 

Peace  is  proclaimed !  Hurrah  !  hurrah ! 

Our  valorous  Yankee  nation 
Has  whipped  the  Mexic  mongrel,  far  i 


Duganne. 


(br- 


MANIFEST  DESTINY. 

Hurrah !  hurrah  !  at  least  ye've  laid 

In  dust  the  Mexic  forces — 
Orphans  and  widows  ye  have  made, 

And  sixty  thousand  corses  ! 
And  Mexico's  partitioned,  too — 

Her  highland  from  her  lowland 
Oh !  brave  republicans  are  you — 

As  Eussians  were — in  Poland ! 


3^- 


0,  ye  who  in  our  pulpits  praised 

The  Lord  for  battle's  glories — 
And  ye  who  swore  that  peace  disgraced, 

And  peace-men  were  but  tories, — 
Light  tapers  now  ! — illuminate  ! 

Let  trump  and  cannon  mingle  ! — 
Till  every  heart  shall  palpitate, 

And  every  ear  shall  tingle. 


Ye've  conquered  Mexico  !   'Twas  bold ! 

The  war  will  surely  cease  now — 
In  part  by  blood,  in  part  by  gold, 

Ye've  gained  (we  thank  you)  peace  now. 
10  TRiUMPHE  !    Homeward  come 

Those  who  in  camp  were  quartered ; 
Save — twenty  thousand  dead  and  dumb. 

By  ball  and  fever  slaughtered. 
232 

QS'e^   •  v-tsNS' 


Poetical  Works.  , 



MANIKKST  l>i:STINY. 

I0_0— 10  !    Sound  the  trump ! 

The  Mcxic  war  is  ended : — 
Moloch  has  gulped  a  heavy  himp, 
And  gold  the  gap  has  mended. 
A  five-act  tragedy,  fair  sirs, 

We've  had  for  us  enacted ! 
May  God  forgive  the  managers, 
"Wlio  for  this  play  contracted  ! 


V. 

INDEMNITY. 

I  wandered  forth,  a  dreamer  lone. 
While  wintry  wdnds  around  me  whistled; 
And  from  the  boughs  where  once  they  nestled, 

Bird  and  bee  were  flown. 
And  to  my  side  there  crept  a  child, 
With  azure  eyes  and  features  mild, 

And  sunny  Saxon  hair — 
But  tangled  was  that  hair,  and  wild. 

As  if  it  knew  no  mother's  care — 
That  desolate  young  child ! 

I  stooped  me  down,  and  gently  drew 
The  trembler  to  my  melting  bosom  ; 
And  wondered  where  so  fair  a  blossom 

In  life's  sad  desert  grew. 


Duganne. 


MANIFEST  DESTINY. 


T 


But  thougli  with  accents  soft  and  low, 
And  tears  that  spite  of  me  would  flow, 

I  questioned  of  his  home — 
He  only  murmured  "Let  me  go  ! 
"For  Pa-pa's  killed  in  Mexico, 
"And  ma-ma's  dead  at  home  !" 

I  clasped  his  little  hand,  and  tried 
To  win  the  heart  so  wildly  heaving. 
And  soothe  the  passion  of  his  grieving ; 

But  still  he  wept  and  sighed. 
And  though  his  eyes  of  mystic  blue, 
Like  sunny  rain,  upon  me  threw 

A  radiancy  of  gloom, — 
He  only  murmured — "  Let  me  go  ! 
"For  Pa-pa's  killed  in  Mexico, 

"And  Ma-ma's  dead  at  home  !" 


Poetical  Works, 


T 


^aikn  of  \\t  ^Jttlir. 


i 


Duganne, 


TO 


The  Gentle  Eva 


(IN  WHOSE  PLEASANT  COMPANY  IT  WAS  WRIT,) 


IS  LOVINGLY  INSCRIBED. 


Poetical  Works. 


In^aibpn  of  f|p  jS|ip|[6. 


PART  FIRST. 


IGHT  hung  darkly  over  the  mountain, 
over  the  forest  and  the  dale ; 
Dim  and  ghostly  from  the  heavens 
look'd  the  moon  so  thiu  arid  pale — 
Like  the  white  face  of  a  mourner  from  her 
thick  and  sable  veil. 

On  the  gray  and  misty  mountain-brow  a  cloudy 

mantle  hung, 
Over  the  storm-king's  giant  shoulders,  as  he  rose  from 

slumber,  flung ; 
And  its  fringe  of  gloom  descended  all  the  shrouded 

vales  among. 


237 


Duganne, 


THE  MAIDEN  OF  THE  SHIELD. 

There  was  sound  of  mirth  and  revel  in  the  Max- 
well's castle-hall : 
(     Mirth  of  warriors  met  for  wassail,  whilst  without, 
upon  the  wall, 
"Watch  and  ward  kept  ancient  Donald  Bane,  the 
stalwart  seneschal. 


Stout  and  trusty  man  was  Donald  Bane ; — at  Naseby 
had  he  bled. 

And  at  "Wor'ster,  where,  with  Scottish  blood,  the  Saxon 

soil  grew  red ; 
Sturdily  strode  he  now  the  ramparts,  with  a  measured 

martial  tread. 


Through  the  gleaming  turret  casements  Donald  looked 

with  longing  peer. 
Whence  the  sound  of  harp  and  pibroch  broke  by  times 

upon  his  ear : 

Clink  of  goblet,  clash  of  trencher,  could  the  sturdy 
yeoman  hear. 

Gloomily  round  the  frowning  turrets,  and  within  the 

shattered  fosse. 
Giant  shadows  oft  like  phantoms  would  the  soldier's 

vision  cross — 
Shapes  that  angrily  toward  Heaven  seemed  their  cloudy 
arms  to  toss. 

238 


Vv^^^__         Poetical  Works.  

\^\)  TIIK  MAIDKN  OK  TIIK  SIIIKI-D.  (iRl 

4f     Slowly  strode  the  stalwiirt  Bcnoscluil,  with  gauntlet  on 
his  sword ; 

Whilst  within,  in  joyous  revel,  sat  the  castle's  noble 
lord ; 

And  a  score  of  valiant  chieftains  clinked  their  goblets 
at  his  board. 


There  was  wild  Sir  Duncan  Carisbrooke,  with  matted 
elfin  hair ; 

Stout  Athlone,  'and  winsome  Umfraville,  and  reckless 
Ranaldmair ; 

And  Lord  Clavers,  false  and  cruel,  with  a  face  like 
angel  fair. 

Many  a  shield,  with  dinted  bosses,  hung  within  that 
banquet-hall ; 

Drooped  full  many  a  lordly  banner  from  the  lofty  tur- 
ret wall : 

But  the  shield  and  flag  of  Clavers  hung  the  highest  of 
them  all. 


For  with  fire  and  steel  from  Stirling  gates  had  Clavers 
ridden  forth, 

With  his  lips  compressed,  his  forehead  dark,  his 

haughty  spirit  wroth ;  j 
And  he  swore  to  mark  with  foot  of  flame  his  pathway 

to  the  north.  11 

 ■   


Duganne. 


THE  MAIDEN  OF  THE  SHIELD. 


Not  like  Scotia's  sons  of  olden  time,  to  quell  the  boast- 
ing Dane, 

Or  to  drive  the  daring  Southron  far  from  Berwick's 
castled  plain  ; 

For  this  man  had  bared  his  broadsword,  Scotia's  noblest 
blood  to  drain. 

Noblest  blood  for  aye,  and  priceless,  that  which  fires 

the  patriot's  veins. 
Be  he  prince  or  be  he  peasant,  who  the  truth  of  God 

maintains : 

Seed-like  falls  the  blood  of  martyrs — ^harvesting  the 
Future's  plains ! 

Breathing  vengeance  rode  Lord  Clavers,  with  his  soul 

as  dark  as  night ; 
And  beside  him  Jamie  Turner — red  with  many  a  gory 

fight; 

And  the  fierce  and  frantic  Dallzell,  with  his  beard  of 
silver  white. 

Eode  they  forth  with  lance  and  banner,  rode  they  forth 
with  steel  and  brand, 

And  they  swore  to  make  a  desert  of  the  pleasant  Scot- 
tish land. 

And  to  slay,  at  hearth  and  altar,  all  the  Covenanters' 
band. 


(6 


Poetical  Works. 


lUK  AlAlDK.N  OK  TUK  HUIKLD. 


PART  SECOND. 


When  the  clouds  were  darkest,  dreariest,  over  castle 

wall  and  tower — 
Wlien  the  goblet  clink  grew  loudest,  at  the  solemn 

midnight  hour — 
Then  arose  fair  Annie  Maxwell  :  hied  she,  trembling, 

from  her  bower. 


Through  the  postern  stole  the  maiden ;   shrill  and 

fiercer  moaned  the  blast ; 
Hied  she  forth  amid  the  tempest,  and  the  shadows 

dark  and  vast ; 
Donald  paced  the  castle  ramparts,  but  he  wist  not  who 

had  passed. 


Like  a  phantom  through  the  midnight  fled  the  Max- 
well's daughter  fair ; 

Loosely  streamed  the  silken  fillet  that  entwined  her 
cloudy  hair ; 

Backward  waved  her  plaid  and  tresses,  fluttering  wildly 
on  the  air. 

241  Q  ^ 


Duganne. 

gy'^^-SV^--    — 


THE  MAIDEN  OF  THE  SHIELD. 


Whitlier  flies  fair  Annie  Maxwell,  'mid  the  tempest 

fierce  and  wild  ? 
Wherefore  seeks  she  now  the  mountain,  where  the 

stormy  clouds  are  piled  ? 
"Wherefore  thus,  through  mist  and  darkness,  flees  the 
castle's  winsome  child? 


She  hath  heard  the  oath  of  Clavers,  at  her  father's 
festal  board ; 

She  hath  heard  his  fiery  troopers  clash  their  sabres  at 
the  word ; 

And  she  knows  that  through  high  Ben  Venn  they  ride 
with  fire  and  sword. 


And  fair  Annie  hath  a  true  love — brave  and  loyal 
youth  is  he — 

Who  hath  sworn  to  guard  the  Covenant  as  long  as  life 
shall  be ; 

And  who  roams  the  hills  an  outlaw — praising  God 
that  he  is  free ! 


'Tis  to  save  the  brave  young  Eonald — 'tis  to  warn  him 

I 

of  his  foes, 

That  the  castle's  mnsome  daughter  from  her  maiden 
couch  uprose. 

Brave  and  loving  Annie  Maxwell!  purer  than  the 
Iliojhland  snows ! 

••  242  -  ■ 

Qg^^Zr^    


Poetical  Works. 

   .^3,(5®^^ 


TJIK  MAIUKN  OK  THK  HIIIKLD, 


Up  the  niDuntain-patli,  with  weiiiy  feet,  tlie  gentle 

maiden  pressed, 
With  her  white  hand  fluttering  dovelike  on  her  wildly- 
heaving  breast ; — 
Far  above  frowned  Ben  Venn,  with  storm  and  cloud 
upon  his  crest. 

^Gainst  the  darkness  pressed  her  forehead,  as  the 
mountain-path  she  clomb ; 

And  the  whiteness  of  that  forehead  seemed  a  snow- 
wreath  on  the  gloom ; 

While  her  hair  rolled  darkly  backward,  like  a  billow 
from  its  foam. 


Heaven  smiles  on  high  endeavor!    Lo!  the  tempest 
sank  away, 

And  a  star  looked  from  the  darkness,  with  a  sweet 

and  placid  ray : 
On  the  turf,  amid  the  shadows,  knelt  the  maiden  down 

to  pray. 

Rose  the  clouds,  like  lifted  curtains,  over  mountain, 

glen,  and  glade — 
While  the  moonlight  gushed  adown  the  rocks  —  an 

echoless  cascade ; 
And  within  it,  like  a  peri,  dripping  silver,  stood  the 

maid.  ^ 
243 




Duganne. 


THE  MAIDEN  OF  THE  SHIELD. 

Y    Over  her  boddice  gleamed  the  ramdops,  in  a  net  of 
jewelrie; 

And  a  lustre  hemmed  her  garments,  as  they  floated 

light  and  free ; 
And  her  midnight  hair  grew  golden,  like  a  glory  on 
the  sea. 


Glanced  her  white  feet  in  the  moonbeam,  as  with 
silver  sandals  dight, 

"While  the  dewdrops  glittered  from  them,  in  a  spray 
of  diamonds  bright; 

And  a  mist  clung  round  her  garments,  as  on  angel- 
wings  the  light. 

Like  an  angel,  kneeling,  praying,  on  that  silent  moun- 
tain-height, 

"With  the  moonbeams  gushing  o'er  her,  in  a  flood  of 
liquid  light : 

Sure  no  fairer,  holier  presence  ever  greeted  mortal 
sight ! 

For  her  heart  was  lifted  upward,  and  through  all  its 

wondrous  cells 
Floated  strange,  mysterious  melody,  in  cadences  and 

swells. 

As  if  all  the  air  were  tinkling  with  the  thiill  of 
crystal  bells. 

244 


^-^JL^__  


Poetical  Works. 


THK  MAIUKN  OV  TlIK  BIIIKLIJ. 


Smiled  the  moonbeams  from  the  heavens,  and  the 

earth,  with  fragrant  thanks,  ^ 

Lifted  u])  her  perfumed  offerings  from  a  thousand 
Howery  hanks. 

Whore  the  dripping  blades  of  heather  softly  bowed 
their  glittering  ranks  ; — 


From  the  beds  of  mountain-violets,  from  bowers  of 

clustering  vines, 
"Where  the  honeysuckle's  crimson  cup  the  jessamine 

entwines ; 

And  where  Scotia's  drooping  bluebell  in  its  modest 
glory  shines. 

Then  the  maiden's  pulses  fainted,  as  if  spelled  by 
witching  art. 

While  the  perfume,  soft  as  lover's  breathing,  kissed 
her  lips  apart. 

And  the  zephyr's  fairy  fingers  touched  the  key-notes 
of  her  heart. 


Thus  she  prayed  amid  the  loneliness  of  forest,  mount, 
and  stream — 

And  the  shadows  melted  round  her,  like  the  darkness 
of  a  dream. 

Oh !  in  truth,  fair  Annie  Maxwell  did  a  blessed  angel  C~ 


seem  i 


245 


—  — 

^  jj  THE  MAIDEN  OF  THE  SHIELD.  (|  -1 


For  ye  might  have  marked  the  dawning  of  her  softly- 
glowing  face, 

As  a  roseleaf  through  a  lily  made  transparent  we 

should  trace — 
Or  an  inner  light  outbreaking  from  an  alabaster 

vase. 


Thus  she  prayed  amid  the  moonlight,  and  she  mur- 
mured, "EoNALD,  dear!" 

But  she  heard  not  from  the  mountain-path  a  lightsome 
foot  draw  near — 

Till  a  voice,  in  well-known  music,  whispered,  "Annie, 
I  am  here !" 


PART  THIRD. 


Morning  breaks  in  blue  o'er  Ben  Yenu — the  morning 
of  our  Lord ; 

And  a  hundred  plaided  warriors  kneel  in  prayer  upon 
the  sward. 

And  the  songs  of  outlawed  Christians  rise  in  beautiful 
accord. 

uS^*"    


v,/~5  Poetical  Works. 


^1 


TIIK  MM1)I;N  ok  THK  Hill  KM). 


f Songs  of  loud  iiwd  voliemeiit  triiiiiiph — rolling  round 
the  cavernous  liills  ;  ^ 
Higher  and  liigher  tlie  liynin  sonorous  through  each 

echoing  chasm  thrills : 
High  and  higher  the  resonant  chorus  all  the  arch- 
ing heaven  fills. 


Here  no  pomp  of  man's  cathedrals,  pillared  shrine  nor 
sounding  aisle — 

Here  no  fi-escoed  roof,  no  sculptured  stone,  no  gold- 
emblazoned  pile, — 

But  a  towering  cliff  the  altar,  and  the  church  a  dim 
defile. 


Columned  from  the  rocks  basaltic — towering  higher 

than  man  might  climb — 
Base,  and  capital,  and  architrave,  existent  from  all 

time ; 

And  the  blue  of  heaven  o'erarching  in  a  canopy  sub- 
lime. 


And  with  flowers  the  aisles  were  tesselate — with  flow- 
ers and  shining  grass ; 

And  the  vines,  festooned  and  draperied,  drooped  in 
many  a  twining  mass ; 

And  the  gateway  of  this  temple  was  a  narrow  moun- 
tain-pass. 

247 


Duganne.  _^^-^sf^ 


THE  MAIDEN  OF  THE  SHIELD. 


Cleft  and  hollowed  from  the  rocky  walls  that  circled 

half  the  scene — 
Steep   and  perilously  descending,   whilst  a  chasm 

yawned  between : 
Fearful  passway  for  the  invader  seemed  this  dangerous 
ravine. 


For  a  score  of  men  might  battle  here  against  a  count- 
less host, 

Scattering  foes  as  waves  are  shivered  on  Lochcarron's 

rocky  coast; — 
Such  a  wild  Thermopylae  this  as  only  Scotia's  land 

may  boast. 


Loud  and  bold,  and  echoing  grandly,  swell  the  Cove- 
nanters' songs — 

Far  and  near  each  vale  resoundingly  the  rolling  strain 
prolongs ; 

And  the  vaulted  caverns  tremble  as  with  clang  of 
martial  gongs. 


Rolling,  deepening,   sinking,   muttering  —  faint  and 

fainter  falls  the  sound. 
Till  the  last  thin  note  dissolveth  in  the  valley-deeps 
profound : 

Then  a  silence,  as  of  midnight,  suddenly  creepeth  all 

A 


±nt;ii  u-  siieiiue,  as  ui  luiuiiigiiL,  suuut;niy  crtJtjptJiii  Hii  * 

h  around.  h 


Poetical  Works.  /--^^ 
^r^—   ^^/n?) 

p  TJIIC  MAIUKNT  THK  HIIIKI.I).  (\ 

Silence,  deep  and  husli'd  as  niidniglit,  broken  only  by 
the  clamp, 

As  of  coursers'  hoofs  descending  o'er  the  rocks  with 
sullen  tramp. 

And  the  hollow  mountain-echoes,  answering  each  re- 
sounding stamp. 

Brief  and  low  the  benediction — while  the  warrior- 
preacher's  ken 
Swept  afar  the  mountain-passes  and  the  openings  of 
the  glen : 

Then  a  clash  of  targe  and  claymore  rudely  spake  the 
stern  "Amen !" 


Vanished  from  the  rocks  and  gorges  who  but  now  had 

knelt  in  prayer — 
Sire  and  child,  and  youth  and  maiden — gone,  as  if 

enwrapped  in  air: 
Gone  and  vanished  from  the  temple — stalwart  men 

and  women  fair. 


Yet  nor  flying  they  nor  fearsome.  Lo!  around  that 
temple  wide — 

Hidden  within  the  cloven  caverns  and  the  beds  of  tor- 
rents dried — 

Still  they  kneel,  and  mutely  worship,  in  the  craggy 
mountain's  side. 


hB^^   "  ^T^A-t 


THE  MAIDEN  OF  THE  SHIELD. 


Duganne. 


1^ 

T 


PART  FOURTH. 


Out  of  the  heavens,  bright  and  beautiful,  the  shower- 
ing sunlight  falls — 

As  with  golden  garments  robing  cliff,  and  rock,  and 
craggy  walls ; 

Building  piles  of  hazy  glory,  glittering  towers  and 
shining  halls. 

Calm  and  beautiful  is  the  landscape,  with  the  sunlight 

smiling  o'er; — 
All  is  silent,  save  the  turbulence  of  some  cataract's 

angry  roar. 

As  it  surges  dull  and  heavily  on  Loch  Achray's  cloudy 
shore. 

And  amid  the  blessed  calmness,  and  beneath  the  sun- 
beam mild — 

While  around,  in  awful  loneliness,  the  mountain  walls 
are  piled — 

Kneels  the  Covenanter  Eonald,  with  the  Maxwell's 
bonnie  child. 


Poetical  Works. 


TIIK  MAIDKN  OK  Till-:  HIIIKM), 


Yawning  fearfully  belbre  them,  glooms  a  wide  and 

darksome  cliasm, 
Whence  tlie  rocks  were  riven,  ages  since,  by  some  tre- 
mendous spasm  ; 
Silent  kneel  the  youth  and  maiden,  hushed  with  high 
enthusiasm. 

Over  the  chasm,  dizzily  spanning,  poised  upon  the 
perilous  clifts, 

Lo !  a  bridge  of  sycamores  springing,  high  its  gnarled 

form  uplifts — 
Fearful  causeway,  heavily  swinging,  o'er  the  terrible 

mountain  rifts. 

Long  and  wearily  through  the  night  had  Ronald 

marked  the  changing  skies — 
Long  and  wearily  watching,  listening,  lest  the  foemen 

might  surprise  ; 
Sentinel' d  here,  the  bridge  before  him — bridge  and 

chasm  before  his  eyes. 

Long  and  wearily  'mid  the  tempest,  through  the  awful 

gloom  of  night, 
Watch  had  Eonald  held  unfaltering,  on  that  lonely 

mountain  height, 
'Till  the  stars  and  Annie  Maxwell  shone  at  once  upon 

his  sight. 


Duganne. 

THE  MAIDEN  OF  THE  SHIELD. 

"Now  the  night  and  storm  were  vanished — and  the  ( 
scent  of  flowrets  fair,  \ 
(     Like  the  breath  of  heaven's  dear  angels,  floated  sweetly  ) 
throngh  the  air ; — 
Hand  in  hand,  and  heart  to  heart,  the  lovers  breathed 
their  morning  prayer. 


Very  soft  was  Annie's  orison — like  a  brooklet's  liquid 
tones — 

Like  a  low  and  musical  brooklet,  trickling  o'er  its 

crystal  stones ; 
Yet  it  reached  her  Infinite  Father,  bending  from  His 

throne  of  thrones. 


Far  above  the  kneeling  lovers  —  swelling  forth  in 

golden  thrills. 
Rolling  grandly  down  the  passes  —  echoed  sweetly 

through  the  hills. 
Hark!  the  hymn  of  Martin  Luther  all  the  raptured 

mountain  fills ! 


Hymn  of  prayer  and  praise  triumphant!  hymn  for 

soldier-saints  to  sing ! 
List!  o'er  Ben  Yenu  it  broodeth,  like  a  glorious  angel's 

wing; 

And  beneath  its  voiceful  music  trembleth  every  living  to 


thing. 


252 


Poetical  Works. 


TlIK  MAIDKN  OK  TIIIO  HHIKI-I).  ^ 

Then,    auotlior   souiid    comes    downward  —  rushing  Vi 

through  the  mountain  caves, 
Like  the  roar  of  angry  water,  as  in  chasm  and  tarn  it 
raves, 

Wlien  the  storm  is  gathering  mightily  o'er  Loch 
Katrine's  yesty  waves. 


Upward  suddenly  rose  young  Ronald,  flinging  back 

his  clustering  locks. 
Whilst,  with  gaze  of  eagle  range,  his  eyes  explored 

the  sundered  rocks, 
Wlience  the  sound  of  iron  hoof-beats  echoed  loud  in 

measured  shocks. 


Swooping  down  the  mountain  passes  rode  a  hundred 
horsemen  bold : 

Swaying  plumes  and  flashing  corselets — gallant  troop- 
ers to  behold ; 

And  the  foremost  man  was  Clavers,  with  his  locks  of 
waving  gold. 


Downward  thundering,  while  the  sun-light  sheathed 

each  iron  form  in  flame : 
Faint  and  fearsome  grew  fair  Annie,  as  the  horsemen 

rushing  came ; 
Well  she  marked  her  sire,  Lord  Maxwell,  riding  fore- 
most with  the  Graeme. 

253 

=—   —  — =cD 


Duganne, 


THE  MAIDEN  OF  THE  SHIELD. 

Loudly  roared  the  sunken  cataracts — but  the  troopers' 
y  yell  rose  higher; 

Downward  rode  they,  swift  and  heavily,  eveiy  hoof- 
print  flecked  with  fire, 
Downward  swooping  toward  the  sycamore  bridge,  still 
downward,  nigher  and  nigher. 


Yet,  nor  faint  nor  fearsome  Eonald:  —  swelled  and 
throbb'd  his  bosom  proud — 

Eesolute  rose  he,  like  an  oak  athwart  the  tempest- 
laden  cloud — 

While  the  lily,  Annie  Maxwell,  on  the  cliff  beneath 
him  bowed. 


Towering  mightily  on  the  precipice,  with  its  beetling 
crags  o'erhung — 

And  the  yawning  chasm  before  him,  with  the  syca- 
mores o'er  it  flung — 

Lo!  a  ponderous  Scottish  battle-axe  around  his  head 
he  swung. 


Flashed  that  war-axe  in  the  sun-light — raised  in  terri- 
ble strength  toward  heaven — • 

Circling  fearfully,  swift  descending — like  a  thunderbolt 
downward  driven : — 

Eeel'd  the  bridge,  and  rock'd  the  precipice,  as  by  light- 
ning fiercely  riven. 


Poetical  Works. 


1110  maii)i:n  ok  tiik  hiiikm). 


4^    Once  agiiin — a  torril)lc  engine — surging,  shivering,  as 


i  it  fell:  J, 

Echoed  the  sound  from  wood  and  mountain — ^lioai^ely  1 

sank  througli  cave  and  dell ; 
Then  from  Clavers'  vengeful  troopers  rose  a  loud,  dis- 
cordant yell. 


Suddenly  check' d,  with  choking  bridle,  back  the  Max- 
well's courser  reared — 

Wildly  gasping,  widely  staring,  down  that  pass  the 
Maxwell  peered ; — 

Was  it  the  phantom  of  his  daughter  ?  was  it  wraith  or 
vision  weird? 


Bright  and  beautiful,  like  a  seraph — as  if  scarce  of 

earth  a  part — 
Mute  and  motionless,  kneeling — moulded  it  might 

seem  by  sculptor's  art, — 
And  a  shield  of  iron  upholding,  covering  Eonald's 
valiant  heart. 

Sturdily  fell  the  blows  of  Eonald,  while  the  maid  be- 
side him  kneeled — 
Never  a  jot  their  true  hearts  faltered — never  a  jot  their 
j  spirits  reeled ; 

Still  the  maid  beside  her  lover  knelt,  and  raised  the 
ponderous  shield. 


7> 


 ""s""""  

^  p  THE  MAIDEN  OF  THE  SHIELD.  ^  ^ 

Then  from  arquebuse  and  matchlock,  hm'thng  on  that 

shield  amain — 
Over  the  sycamores  fiercely  crashing,  sped  the  troopers' 

leaden  rain, — 
Hurtling  fierce  upon  that  iron  shield — still  fiercer,  but 
in  vain. 


For  the  war-axe  still  fell  heavily — fell  with  wide- 
resounding  clang ; 

And  the  echoing  caverns  answered,  where  the  Cove- 
nanters sang — 

And  the  rocks  in  diapason  like  a  mighty  organ 
rang. 

Darkly  frowned  the  fair  Lord  Clavers — cast  he  back 

his  yellow  hair; 
Thrice  he  grasped  a  trooper's  pistol — thrice  his  bullet 

clove  the  air; — 
Ronald  answered  with  a  sturdier  blow — the  maiden 

with  a  prayer. 


Madly  swore  the  bafiled  Clavers — and  the  Maxwell, 
raving  wild, 

Raised  his  mailed  hands  to  heaven,  with  impious 

curses  on  his  child ; 
But  fair  Annie  raised  the  buckler  over  her  lover — 

and  sweetly  smiled.  ^ 

'^^^=^   ■  


i 


Poetical  Works. 


^  THK  MAIDKN  OK  TllIO  HHIKLD. 

And  the  troopers,  wildly  cursing,  saw  tlie  cliff's  un-  (0 
If  stable  ridge  W 

Break  and  crumble  downward  heavily,  *neath  the 

yielding  timbers'  edge; — 
Well  they  knew  that  mortal  footsteps  nevermore  might 
tread  the  bridge. 


Mightily  fell  the  blows  of  Ronald — fell  the  last,  the 

giant  stroke — 
Like  a  cross-bolt,  over  the  precipice,  down  the  crashing 

timbers  broke — 
And  a  roar  like  mingled  thunders  from  the  mountain's 

womb  awoke. 


Dust  and  smoke  and  dry  leaves  w^hirling,  half  obscured 

the  frowning  height. 
Backward  reeled  the  steeds   of   Clavers,  rearing, 

plunging,  in  affright; 
Only  once  again  fair  Annie  met  her  stormy  father's 

sight. 


Once  and  only — as  in  brightness  to  her  lover's  breast 
she  clung. 

While  young  Ronald  toward  the  mountain-eaves  with 
lightsome  foot  upsprung, 
V?    With  the  iron  shield  and  battle-axe  athwart  his  shoul-  ^ 
ders  flung.  x 


2S7 


R 


Duganne.  t^^^-f 
   — 

THE  MAIDEN  OP  THE  SHIELD.  [  pj, 

^    But  adown  the  mountain  gorges,  and  around  the  ^ 
sounding  hills, 
Once  again  the   hymn   sonorous  of  the  warrior- 
Christians  thrills — 
Once  again  the  resonant  chorus  all  the  arching  hea- 
ven fills. 


Many  a  maid  in  bonnie  Scotland,  on  the  mountain- 
sward  hath  kneeled — 

Many  a  brave  and  loyal  soldier  fought  on  Freedom's 
glorious  field ; 

But  no  nobler  souls  than  Ronald  and  the  Maiden  of 
THE  Shield. 


TO  THE 

AND 

Sopo  of  the  Fvjtv.ro 

THESE 

ARE  INSCRIBED. 


Poetical  Works. 


THE  HOME  OF  SONG. 


POET: 

HERE  is  the  Home  of  Song? 

Tell  me,  O  tuneful  soul ! 
WTiere  do  the  harmonies  royally  throng 
Wliere  do  tlie  symphonies,  swooning  along, 
Rivers  of  music  roll  ? 


MINNIE-SINGER  : 

Where  the  wide  hill-sides  glow, 

Purple  with  clustering  vine ; 
Where  the  blue  myriads  of  violets  grow — 
Rivulets,  rippling  in  rythmical  flow. 

Run  to  their  father  Rhine. 

261 


'JL^   Duganne. 


THE  HUMAN  HEART. 


TROUBADOUR : 

Where  the  sweet  austrial  skies 

Shimmer  in  golden  rays ; 
Where  the  low  lakelet  alluringly  lies, 
Wooing  the  wantoning  wind  to  arise, 

Liquid  with  love-lorn  lays. 


Where  the  wild  hards  of  yore 

(Crown'd  with  the  Boreal  Fires) 
Chanted  their  songs  to  the  resonant  shore- 
Billows  of  music,  in  runical  roar, 
Surging  from  stormy  lyres. 


Not  with  the  skies  alone — 

l^ot  with  the  ocean's  roll — 
Not  with  the  rivers,  in  musical  moan, 
Not  with  the  zephyrs,  in  tremulant  tone, 

Dwelleth  the  songful  soul. 


There  is  but  one  dear  Home — 

Thence  we  may  ne'er  depart; 
There  do  the  harmonies  royally  come — 
There  are  the  melodies  nevermore  dumb  !- 
Hush ! — 'tis  the  Human  Heart ! 
262 


Poetical  Works. 


TUK  HUMAN  UKAUT. 


THE  DREAM  OF  THE  TOMBSTONE. 


LISTEN— IjOyq  of  mine !  0  listen, 
While  thy  dewy  eyelids  glisten : 
Let  me  press  thy  snowy  forehead 

With  a  lover's  holy  kiss. 
'Twas  a  dream,  0  gentle  maiden  ! 
When  my  heart  with  grief  was  laden — 
Yet  I  pray  that  God  may  never 

Send  a  vision  like  to  this ; 
Never  plunge  my  dreaming  spirit 

In  so  darksome  an  abyss. 

0 !  methought  in  this  my  dreaming, 
That  the  icy  moonlight,  gleaming 
On  my  bosom,  white  and  naked, 

Did  its  ghastliness  illume ; 
That  my  heart  no  more  was  beating, 
And  the  tide  of  life,  retreating, 
Left  me  like  a  sculptur'd  tablet. 

Like  a  cold  and  marble  tomb — 
Like  a  column,  white  and  solemn. 


In  the  ghostly  graveyard's  gloom. 


Duganne. 


THE  HUMAN  HEART. 


Love  of  mine  !  oh !  press  me  nearer — 
Let  mine  eyes  thy  love-look  mirror — 


Let  me  feel  thy  heart's  low  beating 

Fondly  echoing  mine  own ; 
Give  my  heart  the  blest  assurance 
That  my  dreaming  soul's  endurance 
Was  a  phantom  of  the  midnight, 

From  the  holy  morning  flown ; 
Let  thy  murmured  blessing  tell  me 

Thou  art  mine,  and  mine  alone  ! 

Coldly  streamed  the  moonbeam  o'er  me, 
And  a  new-made  grave  before  me 
Lay,  in  loneliness  and  silence. 

With  its  withered  flow'rets  spread. 
And  a  myrtle  wreath  was  braided 
Round  the  willow,  shrunk  and  faded. 
That,  with  melancholy  motion. 

Waved  above  the  grassy  bed ; 
Like  a  solemn  priest  at  midnight. 

Swinging  censers  o'er  the  dead !  . 

Then  methought  that,  fair  and  beaming, 
Thou  didst  come,  in  radiant  seeming. 
From  the  shadowy  groups  of  cj^press 
That  around  the  church-yard  grew; 


^  Poetical  Works.  ^srvf 


TlIK  HUMAN  IIKAIIT. 


But  another's  arm  was  round  tlicc, 
And  another's  love  had  bound  thee ; 
And  to  him  who  loved  thee  only 

Was  thy  soul  no  longer  true  ! 
Then  I  felt  niy  heart  was  breaking 

As  to  me  ye  nearer  drew. 

Clasp  me  closer,  loved  and  dearest ! 
'Tis  a  dream  that  now  thou  hearest, 
Yet  my  heart  with  fear  is  trembling 

As  its  memory  I  recall ! 
Though  thine  eyes  are  on  me  shining — 
Though  thine  arms  my  neck  are  twining, 
And  thy  murmured  words  of  blessing 

On  my  heart  like  music  fall. 
Yet  the  memoiy  of  that  vision 

Shrouds  me  like  an  icy  pall. 


Thou  and  he  whose  arm  upheld  thee. 
Thou  and  he  whose  love  had  spelled  thee. 
Stood  together  in  the  moonlight 

That  revealed  my  marble  breast — 
And,  with  lips  that  faltered  never. 
Thou  didst  swear  to  love  forever 
Him  who  stood  in  pride  beside  thee, 
With  his  arms  around  thee  prest; 
While  beneath,  all  cold  and  silent,  1 
Jj^  Lay  the  one  who  loved  thee  best.  M 


Duganne. 

THE  HUMAN  HEART. 

Love  of  mine !  this  dream  of  terror, 
God  be  thanked !  is  naught  but  error ; 
Yet  its  memory  oft  hath  darkened, 

Like  a  cloud,  my  sunny  heart; 
For  its  phantom  thoughts  betoken 
How  that  heart,  all  crushed  and  broken, 
Would  be  like  the  marble  tombstone, 

Should  th}^  gentle  love  depart — 
And  the  cj^ress  round  my  myrtle 
From  the  grave  of  hope  would  start ! 


MEMORIES. 


A  T  times  there  falls  across  my  heart 
A  beam  of  memory's  golden  light ; 
And  mote-like  fancies  float  and  dart. 

And  glisten  through  that  medium  bright ; 
Till  even  the  dust,  that  covers  o'er 
The  hopes  and  fantasies  of  yore, 

A  silvery  veil  appears, 
Beneath  which  gleam  in  life  once  more 
lf\  The  joys  of  other  years. 

266 


Poetical  Works. 


TlIK  JIUMAN  IIKAKT. 


But  cvoii  like  one  with  failing  feet, 

Who  tnivoLs  luiiny  ii  weary  mile, 
And  plucks  at  times  some  flow'ret  sweet, 

Or  marks  a  transient  sunbeam  smile ; 
Then  on  some  hill  his  footsteps  stays, 
•  And  calmly  through  the  twilight  haze 

Reviews  his  devious  track, — 
So  now  my  soul  the  Past  surveys. 

But  is  not  tempted  back. 


LOVING  HEARTS. 


I 

O^TELL  me  not  the  world  is  dark, 
With  shadows  lengthening  to  the  tomb ! 

Mine  eyes  would  rather  fondly  mark 

Where  sunlight  flashes  through  the  gloom. 

And  I  would  fain  in  error  dwell, 

If  truth  such  darksome  lore  impart^  ^ — ' 

And  rather  die  than  e'er  dispel 

My  dream  of  Loving  Heart^3^||i>\)i  ^r^^ 

Their  perfume  would  forsake  the  flowery ,  — 

The  golden  hues  of  summer  fade[;i  — 

The  hush'd  birds  droopy ^in  withered  bowers, 

And  sunny  brooklets  sink  to  shade^-^?  j 
267 


~?  Duganne.  .  <r>r-f 


THE  HUMAN  HEART. 


And  o'er  the  soul  of  Uving  things 

Would  fall  the  gloom  that  ne'er  departs, 
'If  from  our  bright  imaginings^ 

Were  banished  Loving  Heart8»|| 

' '  ' '  ■(■( 

They  are  around  us  and  above — 
Hal^ihiddenjTas  in  wild-wood  leaves^ 

Close  nestles  some  white-breasted  dove ; 
And  he  is  happy  who  believes 

That  they  are  living,  though  unseen, 

Like  light,  ere  from  the  cloud  it  starts, — 

And  he  is  truly  blest,  I  ween. 

Who  loves  those  Loving  Hearts(!]^ 

— ^«+3e-^»- — 


MIDNIGHT  IN  THE  CHURCH-YARD. 


TWEL  VE  o'clock  !  the  night-cock  croweth, 

Croweth  long  and  loud ; 
And  I  do  feel  my  spirit  sink, 

And  m}^  heart  within  me  bowed. 

Through  the  night  have  I  been  listening, 

Wearily  through  the  night — 
To  the  sounds  within  the  old  church-yard. 

That  sleepeth  in  my  sight. 

268 


Poetical  Works. 


TIIK  HUMAN  HKAKT. 


Shining  down  upon  tlio  tombstones, 
Fidleth  the  white  moon-beam, 

And  silvereth  all  the  darksome  graves 
With  a  bright  and  quiet  gleam ; — 

And  I  do  think,  as  mine  eyes  behold  it. 
That  love,  like  the  moon-beam  bright, 

Can  clothe  the  dark  and  frightful  grave 
With  a  mantle  of  silver  light. 

Round  and  about,  among  the  tombstones, 

Glide  the  dark  shades  afar — 
Like  evil  thoughts,  that  fly  away 

When  shineth  the  pure  love-star! 

The  lonely  willo\v-trees  are  bending. 

Sorrowful  over  the  graves — 
And  the  stars,  above  in  heaven,  shine  • 

Through  each  one  as  it  waves. 

And  thus,  when  sorrow's  willow  bendeth, 

Over  us  sad  and  dark. 
If  we  but  look  through  the  leaves  above, 

The  beautiful  stars  we  mark ! 


It  is  well  for  me  to  gaze,  at  midnight, 


Into  the  church-yard  old. 
Where  the  mounds  of  the  long-departed 


Sleep  in  the  moonbeam  cold : — 


T 


Duganne, 


THE  HUMAN  HEART. 


For  there  cometli  to  my  soul  a  lesson, 
And  when  I  have  learned  it  well, 

The  weariness  goes  from  off  my  heart, 
Like  the  gloom  where  the  moonbeam  fell. 


VESPERS. 


/  SIT  beneath  the  oriel  porch, 

That  looketh  toward  the  western  sky, 
And  watch,  while  Eve,  the  shepherdess, 

Her  white  flocks  hurries  by: 
And  watch  the  truant  cloudlets  stray 

Far  off,  upon  the  azure  deeps. 
To  lose  themselves  amid  the  stars, 

That  troop  adown  the  steeps. 
Poor  little  lambkins  of  the  air ! 

White-fleeced  like  Innocence  below, — 
That,  yearning  still  for  brighter  paths, 
Too  oft  astray  will  go  ! 

The  blessed  ^^'ight  comes  down  to  me. 
And  nun-like  chants  her  solemn  prayers ; 

The  stars  she  counteth,  as  her  beads, 
The  moon  upon  her  bosom  bears — 


Poetical  Works. 

TlIK  lUMAN  IIKAKT. 

A  white  and  holy  scapuhir — 
Beneath  whose  crescent  rim  afar 
The  azure  secret  of  the  skies, 
In  wondrous  quiet,  lies. 
O  Moon  !  0  Stars  !  0  silent  Night ! 
My  teachers,  as  my  theme,  are  ye : 
Fair  missals  for  my  faith  to  read — 
My  hope's  dear  rosary. 

THE  RECOMPENSE. 


THROUCrH  the  mazy  market-place 
A  gentle  Poet  thrid  his  way ; 

Sad  yet  beauteous  was  his  face — 
Sad  yet  sweet  his  lay. 

In  the  people's  eyes  looked  he, 

(As  he  would  read  each  stranger  heart,) 
While  his  song  so  solemnly 

Talked  with  each  apart. 

"Silver  have  I  none,"  he  said — 

"  Nor  golden  store  have  I,"  quoth  he; 

Thus  he  sung  as  on  he  sped. 
Harping  solemnly. 

271 


Duganne. 

.@'a>~V9-   °   

THE  HUMAK  HEART. 

Then  the  people  knelt  them  down, 
j  With  golden  gifts  and  jewels  rare — 

Bringing  for  his  brow  a  crown, 
Woven  of  flowerets  fair. 


But  the  Poet's  harp  no  more 

With  silver  singing  gently  thrilled. 

And  his  voice,  so  sweet  before. 
Evermore  was  stilled. 

For  the  jewels  and  the  gold 

Were  broidered  on  his  shroud,  (they  say,) 
And  upon  his  bosom  cold, 

Withering  flowerets  lay. 


A  FANTASIE. 


I  SIT  beside  my  gentle  one : 

Her  hand  is  laid  in  mine ; 
And  thus  we  watch  the  parting  sun 

In  golden  haze  decline. 
Across  the  fields  the  shadows  creep, 

And  up  the  misty  hill ; 
And  we  our  twilight  vigils  keep, 

At  our  own  cottage-sill. 
172 


Poetical  Works. 

TIIK  HUMAN  HKART. 

The  distant  brooklet's  murmurs  come, 

Like  bell-notes  through  the  leaves ; 
And  many  an  insect's  mazy  hum 

Its  dreamy  music  weaves. 
The  dove's  last  note,  in  rippling  beats. 

Upon  the  air  departs ; 
The  breath  of  all  our  garden  sweets 

Is  creeping  to  our  hearts. 

The  russet  woodbine  round  our  porch, 
In  clustering  ringlets  twines ; 

The  honeysuckle's  crimson  torch 
Gleams  through  the  dusky  vines ; 

The  sunset  rays  are  trembling  now 
Amid  the  trellis-bars — 

They  paint  upon  my  darling's  brow 
A  glory  like  the  stars. 

Her  cheek  is  nestling  on  my  breast, 

Her  eyes  are  bright  with  tears ; 
A  prayer,  half-breathed  and  half-represt, 

My  listening  spirit  hears. 
Oh !  blessed  be  the  changeless  love 

That  glorifies  my  life ! 
All  doubt,  all  fear,  all  guile  above — 

My  own  true-hearted  wife ! 


*73 


s 


  Duganne, 


THE  HUMAN  HEART. 


SPIRIT-LIFE. 


IN  the  lone  and  silent  midnight — 

When  the  stars,  from  darkness  creeping, 
One  by  one,  like  blessed  beacons, 

Sentinel  our  sleeping, — 
Then  I  feel  within  my  spirit 

Breathings  of  a  purer  life — 
Voices  of  an  inward  music. 

Calming  outward  strife. 

Light  breaks  in  upon  my  slumber — 

Light  of  more  than  earthly  gladness  ; 
Low  and  sweet  come  many  whispers, 

Soft  with  heavenly  sadness ; 
And  around  me,  mute  and  saint-like, 

Forms,  in  love  and  wisdom  bright. 
Move  through  air  with  shadowy  footsteps, 

Smile  with  eyes  of  light. 

Each  hath  sorrow  in  its  features, 

Yet  a  high  and  holy  meekness — 
Each  hath  soul  within  its  glances. 

Conquering  mortal  weakness ; 
Each  fair  form,  that  foUoweth  slowly, 

Fairer  seems  than  that  before — 
Less  of  dull  and  earthly  seeming. 

And  of  heaven  more. 

274 




f 


Poetical  Works. 


TIIK  HUMAN  IIKAUT. 

And  as  each  one  toward  inc  turiietli, 

In  its  mystic  features  trembling 
Shines  a  blessed  soul  transfigured, 

My  own  soul  resembling ; 
And,  with  tearful  reverence  viewing 

That  of  which  my  soul  is  part., 
Listening  to  the  eternal  future, 

Bends  my  earthly  heart. 


SPIRIT-LOVE. 


TELL  me,  ye  who  long  have  threaded 

All  the  mazes  of  the  heart ! 
Are  not  life  and  death  still  wedded — 
Each  of  each  a  part  ? 

Once  a  gentle  form  before  me 

Shed  a  light  around  my  soul ; 
Holy  eyes  were  bending  o'er  me. 
Music  through  my  spirit  stole. 
Once  my  inmost  life  was  plighted 

Fondly  with  a  saint  on  earth, 
Like  two  music  notes  united — 
isTotes  that  sever  in  their  birth. 

  "   


Duganne.  


^^~|)  THE  HUMAN  HEART. 

Y  Yet  not  severed  we,  though  parted,  If 

Still,  in  truth,  our  souls  are  one ; 
Though  on  earth  the  gentle-hearted 

Hath  her  blessed  mission  done. 
Still,  for  me  in  sweet  communion, 

Lives  the  form  that  seemeth  dead. 
Love  was  once  our  chain  of  union. 
Still  with  love  our  souls  are  wed. 


In  the  spirit's  tranquil  vesper. 

When  the  prayer  of  love  ascends, 
Comes  a  soft,  responsive  whisper — 

With  my  voiceless  musing  blends. 
Then,  as  earth's  dim  shadows  faintly 

Flit,  and  from  mine  eyes  depart. 
Dwells  with  me  a  presence  saintly. 

Dove-like,  folded  near  my  heart. 


Tell  me,  then,  ye  spirit-seeing ! 

Is  it  truth  the  angel  saith  ? 
Is  not  love  the  chain  of  being — 

Love  the  lord  of  death  ? 


Poetical  Works. 


TUK  HUMAN  HKAUT. 


SEEMINGS. 


IN  the  earth's  womb  all  loveliness  doth  gi^ow ! 

So  low  estate  may  garb  the  trusting  soul 
With  beauty  pure  as  the  immortals  know. 

Wlio  reads  his  heart  first  learneth  self-control ; 

And  deemeth  that  which  multitudes  extol 
As  all  too  mean  to  chain  his  lightest  thought. 
Behold !  how  glorious  are  the  hues  en  wrought 
Upon  the  rainbow's  web ! — ^yet  are  they  naught 
But  exhalations  from  the  fens  o'ei-fraught 

With  stagnant  dews,  and  but  reflect  the  glow 

Of  that  which  will  destroy  them  !    Even  so 

Are  man's  idolatries  but  mocking  show; 

They  taint  the  air  which  they  invade  below, 
And,  tried  by  higher  light,  a  borrowed  radiance  throw. 


Whoso  in  Love  believeth,  him  I  trust — 
Whoso  despiseth  Love,  suspect  I  must ! 
Though  others'  fasehood  strew  my  heart  with  dust. 
Mine  own  clear  faith  shall  burn  beneath  the  crust ! 


FAITH   IN  LOVE. 


277 


Duganne. 


THE  HUMAN  HEART. 


BEN-YUSEF. 


0  FRIEND  !  this  simple  tale  I  would  impart: — 
The  wise  Ben-Yusef,  of  the  lowly  heart, 
Dream'd  that  his  son  was  pierced  by  Azrael's  dart. 

In  vain  El  Haldm  came,  with  leech's  craft, — 
mortal  hand  could  pluck  the  fatal  shaft ! 
But,  lo !  as  Yusef  sorrowing  looked  above, 
A  voice  said,  "  Father !"  in  low  tones  of  love ; 
While,  clothed  in  robes  of  gold  and  azure  dyes, 
His  Selim  smiled  on  him  with  lustrous  eyes. 

"  0  joy!"  cried  Yusef — "  Selim  hath  not  died ! 

"Allah  be  praised!  the  arrow  glanced  aside!" 

"Thou  sayest  sooth!"  the  radiant  shape  replied — 
"  To  deem  that  Azrael  conquered  was  not  well ; 
"  For  he  thou  lovest  Jives — 'twas  Death  that  fell !" 


THE   THREE  MARIES. 

THE  Virgin,  the  Disciple,  the  Eedeemed — 

The  Mother,  Friend,  and  lowly  Magdalen ! 
In  Jesu's  eyes  alike,  through  love,  they  seemed : 

Are  they,  then,  equal  ?    Yea,  I  say,  Amen ! 
Virgin'd  was  she  all  womankind  above, 

Whose  virgin  bosom  bore  divinity; 
So,  haply,  she  who  sinned,  yet  "much  did  love," 

Through  love  divine  re-bears  virginity. 


Poetical  Works. 


TUK  HUMAN  IIICAUT. 

LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP. 


LOVE  is  a  Butterfly,  lady ! 
Flitting  from  flower  to  flower — 
Pausing  to  sip 
Each  nectarine  lip, 
And  dreaming  in  every  bower : 
But  Friendship,  the  Dove,  o'er  Life's  waters  dark, 
Ever  flies  home  to  the  Heart's  dear  Ark. 

Love  is  a  IsTautilus,  lady ! 
Trimming  its  tiny  sail — 
Skipping  in  glee 
Over  beauty's  sea. 
And  dancing  with  every  gale : 
But  Friendship,  dear  lady !  may  ne'er  depart, 
N"eedle-hke,  pointing  the  magnet  Heart. 

Love  is  a  Gossamer,  lady ! 

Floating  in  golden  air — 

Ever  astray. 

With  zephyrs  at  play, 

And  volatile  every  where : 

But  Friendship's  a  star  in  the  Heart's  blue  sky, 

Over  Gossamer — Nautilus — Butterfly ! 

279 

fc=   — 


AN   OLD-STYLE  MADRIGAL. 


I  KNOWE  a  littel  hande: 
'Tys  ye  softeste       ye  lande — 
And  I  feele  yts  pressure  blande 

Whyle  I  synge : 
Lylie-wliyte,  and  restynge  nowe, 
Lyke  a  rose-leafe  on  my  browe, 
As  a  dove  myglite  fanne  my  browe 

Wythe  yts  winge. 
Welle  I  pryze,  (alle  bandes  above,) 
Thys  deare  hande  of  Herre  I  love ! 


II. 


I  knowe  a  littel  foote — 
Very  connyngelye  'tys  putt 
In  a  dayntie  littel  boote, 

"Where  y*  hydes : 
Lyke  a  shuttel  y*  ever  flyes 
Backe  and  forthe  before  myne  eyes, 
Weavynge  musyque  forre  myne  eyes. 

As  yt  glydes. 
Welle  I  pryze,  (alle  feete  above,) 
Thys  deare  foote  of  Herre  I  love ! 


^i^Q^jjj^       Poetical  Works 


TlIK  UUMAN   UK  ART. 
III. 

I  knowe  a  littel  liartc, 

Yt  yo  free  from  courtlio  arte, 

And  I  owne      (everio  parte) 

Forre  alle  tyme: 
Ever  yt  beates  wythe  musyque  tone- 
Ever  an  echoe  of  myne  owne, 
Ever  keepynge  wythe  myne  owne 

Ilolie  chime. 
Welle  I  pryze,  (alle  hartes  above,) 
Thy  deare  harte  of  Herre  I  love ! 


CANZONET. 


I  AM  alone,  my  own  love ! 

Thou  art  not  near  me  now  ; 
Yet  in  my  dreams  it  seems,  love ! 

At  thy  dear  feet  I  bow. 
Still  thou  art  brought,  in  thought,  love  ! 

Close  to  my  yearning  heart : 
Still  on  thy  breast  I  rest,  love ! 

Even  when  far  thou  art. 
'Tis  my  soul  meets  and  greets,  love  ! 

Thine,  as  it  floats  to  me : 
Dost  thou  not  feel  it  steal,  love  ! 

Softly  a-near  to  thee  ? 
281 


Duganne. 


THE  HUMAN  HEART. 


ANACREONTIQUE. 


JULIA  !  I  charge  thee,  fill  for  me 
A  goblet  of  the  Orient  win6  ! 
IsTow  Luna's  yellow  tresses  twine 
Their  gold  amid  the  jet  of  thine, 
I  drink,  my  love !  to  thee. 
Ay  ! — fling  thy  glowing  arms,  my  girl ! 
About  my  neck,  and  lay  thy  brow 
Upon  my  bosom  closely  now, 
Until  my  breath  shall  fan  the  curl 
That  wantons  with  my  lips — 
The  jealous  Moon  shall  learn,  full  soon, 

Thine  eyes  are  her  eclipse  ! — 
Fill  high  !  fill  high  ! — or  live,  or  die, 

I  clasp  thee  in  mine  arms — 
By  Heaven !  I  swear,  that  sky  and  air 

Are  drunken  with  thy  charms  ! 
My  soul  is  trembling  on  my  breath — 

One  kiss ! — and  thou  may'st  taste  it ! 
"  Soft,  dearest!  soft !"  it  murmureth — 
"  Take  not  thy  lips  away,"  it  saith  : 
"  Taste  all — but  do  not  waste  it!" 


282  /  lr> 


Poetical  Works. 


love's  eyes. 


LIGHT  of  my  life  !  thy  glorious  eyes 
Like  stars  above  my  heart  arise — 
Like  stars  that  shine  in  midnight  skies. 

Down  in  my  bosom's  deep  they  beam, 
Like  star-rays  in  some  darksome  stream — 
Reflected  there,  mine  own  they  seem. 

Eeflected  in  my  soul  thou  art — 
And  thy  dear  eyes  of  me  are  part : 
By  their  pure  light  I  read  my  heart. 

Before  their  beams,  so  bright  and  clear, 
My  shadowy  doubtings  disappear; 
And  Hope  is  now  where  once  was  Fear. 

Dear  Eyes  ! — do  not  my  heart  forsake ! 
Shine,  like  the  stars  within  the  lake — 
Shine,  and  the  darksome  shadows  break  ! 


Duganne. 

THE  HUMAN  HEART. 


LOVE-SONG. 

I  AM  close  beside  thee,  dearest ! — 

Round  me  are  thy  white  arms  thrown : 
'Tis  my  beating  heart  thou  hearest, 

Dearest !  beating  with  thine  own. 
Yet,  ah  me  !  a  cloud  is  dimming 

Thy  fair  soul  w^th  shadowy  fears  : 
And  thy  dark  eyes  now  are  swimming. 

Brimming,  with  their  gushing  tears. 

Tell  me,  dear  one  !  why  thou  mournest : 

Canst  thou  doubt  my  love  for  thee  ? 
Can  /  doubt  that  thou  returnest 

Earnest,  trusting  love  to  me  ? 
'Tis  no  dream,  of  poets'  musing. 

That  our  mingled  hearts  we  teach ; 
For  our  lives  we  are  transfusing — 

Losing  each  one's  soul  in  each. 

In  the  well-depths  of  our  feeling. 

In  the  home  of  endless  truth. 
We  have  hushed  our  love's  revealing — 

Sealing  its  eternal  youth. 
Twine  thine  arms,  my  love  !  around  me — 

Lay  thy  bosom  close  to  mine ; 
I  thank  God  that  thou  hast  bound  me. 

Wound  me,  in  this  love  of  thine. 


Poetical  Works. 

•niK   HUMAN  IIKAUT. 

ABSENT. 


THE  ruddy  bridegroom  of  the  iN'ight 
Has  entered  to  his  ladye's  halls ; 

And  softly,  over  mortal  sight, 
Their  nuptial  curtain  falls. 

I  see  the  rosy  clouds  no  more, 

For  they  were  handmaids  of  the  sun, 

That  danced  unto  his  chamber-door. 
Then  vanished,  one  by  one. 

And  now  the  twilight  hour  has  come ; 

The  tender  twilight's  mystic  hues. 
And  low  winds,  full  of  kisses  dumb, 

And  silver-footed  dews. 
The  song  of  birds,  the  breath  of  flowers, 

The  zephyr's  thrill,  are  greeting  me, — 
Yet  pass  I  wearily  the  hours — 
For — I  am  not  with  thee. 


THE  NOURISHER. 


Give  me !"  the  earth-born  cries,  and  from  the  earth 
Comes  food,  wherewith  our  mortal  life  hath  birth : 
Give  me !"  in  turn  cries  earth,  and  we  deny — 

Ah !  fools  !  earth  feeds,  too.  Immortality 

285 


(sr: 


Duganne. 


THE  HUMAN  HEART. 


HEART-MIRRORS. 


LOVEBS  once  in  magic  mirrors 
Sought  their  distant  loves  to  see — 

Calmed  their  fears,  or  woke  new  terrors, 
By  the  power  of  glamourie. 

Ah !  there  needeth  for  my  being 
Magic  skill  nor  wizard  art — 

Still  thy  gentle  form  I'm  seeing 
In  the  Mirror  of  my  Heart. 

Still,  as  Fortune  (oft  beguiling) 
Greets  me  with  a  honied  kiss, — 

In  my  heart-glass,  bright  and  smiling, 
I  behold  thee  share  my  bliss. 

And  when  o'er  my  spirit  lonely 
Falleth  sorrow's  darksome  cloud. 

In  that  glass  I  see  thee  only 

Sad,  and  dark,  and  sorely  bowed. 

Loved  and  loving  still  are  we,  love  ! 

Mirrored  are  our  mutual  hearts  : 
I  in  thee,  and  thou  in  me,  love ! 

Till  the  life  of  both  departs. 


i%6 


Poetical  Works. 


TIIIC  HUMAN  IIKAKT. 


MY  MISTRESSE, 


MY  mistresse  Lath  a  loving  lip — 
The  honey-bees  might  cluster  on't ! 
Or,  chaliced  in  its  rosy  font, 
Ambrosial  kisses  sip 
But,  oh !  her  rippling  laughter  falls, 

In  silver  beats,  serenely  clear. 
Or,  cooing  like  the  wooing  calls 

Of  some  enamored  dove, 
Low  broods  upon  my  charmed  ear — 
A  rythm  of  perfect  love. 


II. 

My  mistresse  hath  a  queenly  eye — 
Its  fringes  vail,  but  cannot  hide, 
The  lustrous  shafts  of  royal  pride 
That  in  its  darkness  lie. 
But,  oh  !  when  passion's  dreamy  spell  • 
Is  trembling  through  her  tender  soul. 
And  feeling's  deep  revealings  quell 

The  maiden's  haughtier  art. 
Ah !  then,  beyond  all  proud  control, 

O'er-swims  her  loving  heart. 
287 


Duganne. 

THE  HUMAN  HEART. 
III. 

My  mistresse  hatli  a  foreliead  fair, 
Where  moony  lustres  softly  glide — 
The  while,  like  shadows  glorified. 
Her  thoughts  are  mirrored  there. 
Therein  I  read  each  tender  mood — 
Therein  I  trace  her  blessdd  soul. 
Arrayed  in  radiant  maidenhood. 
And  shining  into  mine. 
As  if  a  tranquil  glory  stole 
From  out  some  holy  shrine. 


IV. 

My  mistresse  hath  a  dainty  cheek, 
Where  roses  bleed  through  melting  snow ! 
How  soft  its  touch,  if  I  did  know, 
I  might  not  choose  to  speak. 
But,  oh !  the  light  that  trembles  there 

When,  softly  on  my  sobbing  lute. 
To  daring  Love's  despairing  prayer 
I  tune  the  thrilling  key : 
My  very  heart  it  maketh  mute — 
To  think  she  loveth  me ! 


Poetical  Works. 


TUK  UUMAN  UKAUT, 


THE   LOST  PLEIAD. 


AH!  cruel  one !  that  sayst  thy  marble  heart 

Can  feel  an  inward  sob  ! 
More  fitting  mine,  oppressed  with  bitter  smart, 

Should  inly  throb ; 
Which  thou  of  peace  (unkind  one  that  thou  art !) 

Didst  coldly  rob. 

I  laid  at  thy  dear  feet  my  laurel  wreath. 

From  Glory's  garden  won ; 
Full  gladly  cast  I,  then,  my  heart  beneath, 

O  chosen  one ! 
That  heart  which,  even  now,  (our  dear  Lord  seeth  !) 


But  thou,  who  shouldst  have  queen'd  it  o'er  thy  mates, 

(An  eagle-wedded  dove !) 
And  walk'd  with  me  through  Honor's  starry  gates. 

All  scorn  above, — 
How  wilt  thou  match  with  less-aspiring  fates 


Is  thine  alone. 


Thy  high-born  love  ? 

289 


Duganne. 

THE  HUMAN  HEART. 

Like  star  that  drifted  o'er  mine  upward  way, 

Thy  love  did  seem  to  me ; 
And  all  my  life  beneath  its  presence  lay 

Like  charmdd  sea ! 
Still  glorious  thou — but  earthward  and  astray 
God  pity  thee ! 


A  LOVING  LIFE. 


LET  Love  inspire  thee,  and  thy  life  shall  be 
A  daily  prayer  to  Heaven  for  sinful  earth : 
For  by  true  Love  hath  all  true  virtue  birth ; 

And  He,  whose  life  was  Love,  shall  strengthen  thee 
For  Love,  like  perfume  in  the  floweret's  cup. 
Its  balmy  influence  still  rendereth  up, 

To  fill  each  breeze  with  sw^eetness  like  its  own : 

Thus  by  our  loving  lives  a  sway  is  thrown 

(Even  though  that  sway  to  us  be  all  unknown) 
O'er  many  a  wanderer  in  this  wwld  of  guile; 
And  thus  a  soul  may  cost  us  but  a  smile  I 

Let  then  our  Love  in  loving  deeds  be  shown  ; 
For,  as  their  fragrance  lifts  itself  above. 

Be  sure  that  many  a  heart  is  lifted  thus  by  Love. 


290 


Poetical  Works. 


Till':   IHIMAN  lIKAItT. 


TO  ONE  DEPARTED. 


Alt  T  thou  not  near  me,  with  thine  earnest  eyes, 
That  weep  forth  sympathy ! — thy  holy  brow, 

Whereon  such  sweet  imaginings  do  rise  ? 
Art  thou  not  near  me,  when  I  call  thee  now, 
Maid  of  my  childhood's  vow  ? 

^Tow  I  behold  thee,  with  thy  sorrowing  smile, 
And  thy  deep  soul,  up-looking  from  thy  face. 

While,  sweetly  crossed  upon  thy  breast  the  while, 
Thy  white  hands  do  tliy  holy  heart  embrace, 
In  its  calm  dwelling-place! 


CRUSHED  FLOWERS. 


OUT  oi  the  ^^dldered  petals  of  a  flower. 
Struck  heedlessly  by  violent  hand  to  earth, 
Ye  may  some  still  unrifled  sweets  extract. 
And  breathe  the  past  life  of  what  now  lies  dead. 
So,  haply,  gazing  on  a  ruined  hearty 
Whose  bruised  leaves  disclose  the  spoiler's  touch, 
Bethink  ye,  if  'tis  worth  some  trifling  care 
To  search  for  lingering  perfume  in  the  wreck,  i 
Jl  Kor  wholly  crush  it  by  unthinking  tread !        '  Jl 


,^1 


Duganne. 


THE   HUMAN  HEART. 


THE  SERPENT. 


DOWN  a  lonesome  mountain-pass, 
Toward  the  dim  and  silent  vale, 

Rode  a  warrior  clad  in  armor — 
Shining  helm  and  coat  of  mail. 

And  the  warrior's  mailed  hand 
On  his  iron  bosom  press'd — 

"  Woe  is  me  !"  he  murmured  sadly — 
"  There  is  torture  in  my  breast." 

For  beneath  his  gleaming  mail, 
And  beneath  his  hauberk  gay. 

Evermore  a  deadly  serpent 
On  the  warrior's  bosom  lay. 

Down  the  dark  and  solemn  vale, 
Where  the  sable  river  flowed, 

To  the  toll-gate  at  the  ferry, 
Faster  still  the  horseman  rode. 

And  the  maiden  at  the  gate, 

Spoke  in  accents  sweet  and  low. 
Saying,  "  Rest  thee,  wearied  rider: 
Farther  on  thou  must  not  go  !" 


292 


Poetical  Works.        .  ^<«,-vjr-fc'^ 

.  K  ^  TIIK   HUMAN  HKAHT.  (TV  * 

"  I  will  take  tlico  in  my  arms,  ffi 
IF  And  my  heart  shall  be  thy  rest, 

And  no  longer  shalt  thou  journey. 
With  the  serpent  in  thy  breast." 


Then  she  kissed  the  warrior's  brow, 
And  he  felt  her  balmy  breath : 

And  the  serpent  gnawed  no  longer, 
For  the  maiden's  name  was — Death. 

THE   TRUE  VISION. 


0  HEART!  that  hopes,  believes,  and  loves  all  things ! 
O  Soul !  which  knows  not  that  itself  exists  I 

1  would  the  Soul  were  plumed  with  the  Heart's  wings. 
To  bear  it  from  the  world's  enshrouding  mists. 

Methinks  that  Love  is  the  true  vision  of  man. 
By  which  he  seeth  no  longer  "  through  a  glass 
Darkly,  but  face  to  face."   Haply  we  pass 

In  death  through  loving  change — whereby  the  ban 
Shall  seem  a  blessing,  and  the  veil  of  earth 

Fall  from  us,  like  the  scales  from  blinded  Paul, 
When  that  his  soul  awoke  in  its  new  birth. 

And  he,  from  hating  all  things,  loved  them  all ; 
So  may  our  soul's  eyes,  pierced  by  light  above. 

Rejoice  in  blinding  Death,  that  leads  from  Hate  to  Love ! 


yy^^^   Duganne.  ^^3^ 

"^^^  HUMAN  HEART. 

TO  A  DYING  SISTER. 

DUAE  one !   Thou  diest ! 
And  my  crush' d  heart  is  with  its  sorrow  mute : 
Its  sighs  alone  may  syllable  farewell, 
And  with  their  throbbing  whispers  thrill  my  lute — 
Poor  lute !  that  knows  not  what  the  heart  would  tell. 

Farewell !  sweet  heart  of  love  ! 
Thou  hast  unloek'd  the  fountains  of  deep  tears 
In  my  long  desert  bosom — thou  hast  stirred 
My  spirit's  darksome  waters,  and  my  fears 
And  doubts  have  vanished  at  thy  healing  word. 

Even  like  the  gentle  spring. 
Gilding  with  sunlight  all  my  darksome  hours, 
Camest  thou  before  me,  beautiful  and  bright ! 
Thy  voice  was  as  the  breath  of  pure  delight — 
By  the  wayside  I  saw  thy  smile,  like  flowers. 

God  claims  thee,  gentle  one ! 
Even  now  the  joy  of  heaven's  imaginings, 
With  angel  vesture  robes  thy  holy  heart — 
Thy  beautiful  thoughts  upbear  thee  with  white  wings : 
God  claims  thee,  darling  one !  We  part — we  part  ! 


294 


^2 


Poetical  Works. 


Duganne. 


TO 

J.  J.  "Couch,  J.  Glover  Drew, 

AND 

John  Botume, 
Sons  of  jaeb  i^nglantr 

AND 

TRIED  FRIENDS, 

THESE  MISCELLANIES 

(•VTHICH  THEY  HAVE  MARKED  BY  THEIR  COMMENDATION) 
ARE  DEDICATED. 


Poetical  Works. 

-g/g/6V»^    '""-^^'S 


ANTEDILUVIUM, 


EEP  mutterings  were  heard, 

As  of  arising  thunders ; — now  in  low 
And  hoarsely-moaning  tones,  that  stirred 
All  hearts  with  secret  terror — then  a  long 
Continuous,  melancholy  flow 
Of  sound,  like  waves  that  roll  among 
The  deep,  o'erhanging  woods ; 
And  then  the  mountains  shook,  and  sounds 
Broke  forth  from  their  deep  wombs ;  and  then 
The  roar  of  rushing  floods — 
That  came,  in  swift  and  fearful  bounds, 
From  mountain-top  to  glen. 

297 

g'^^e^-a   --^^© 


Duganne. 


METEICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


The  hearts  of  men  were  hush'd  in  chillino^  fear; 


They  came,  and  each  drew  near 
The  other,  muttering  some  fearful  thought. 
And  straining  eyes -were  turned  to  heaven; 

For  thence — the  prophet-man  had  said — 

Should  come  their  fearful  doom  : 
But  though  the  mountain-cliffs  were  riven — 
And  though  each  little  rippling  rill, 

That  silvered  once  the  meadows  fair, 
Was  swelled  to  rolling  billows — still 
No  tempest  broke  the  air  : 

No  cloud  enwrapped  in  sable  gloom 
The  blue  and  peaceful  sky ; 
But  there  the  holy  star-light  beamed, 
And  placidly  its  radiance  streamed 
Upon  each  up-turn'd  eye. 

Then  a  quick,  sharp  crash,  like  a  trumpet-blast, 
Broke  around  and  above,  and  the  light  was  past; 
And  the  trampling  thunders  came  fierce  and  fast : — 
Men  looked  around,  and  they  looked  their  last. 

A  moment  it  paused,  and  the  wind  was  stilled ; 
Not  a  passing  zephyr  the  leaflets  thrilled — 

Not  a  ripple  broke  over  the  water ; 
And  then  o'er  the  silent  sky  was  spread 
A  terrible  mantle  of  bloody  red, 


And  from  the  palace  and  the  peasant's  cot 


Like  crimson  field  of  slaughter. 

298 


4 


Poetical  Works. 

^    ^ 

Mi  l  IU(  U,  MISCKM.ANIKH. 

And  tlicii  tlio  ligliliiings,  fork'd  mid  bright, 
Gleamed  out  on  tlie  llice  of  the  fearful  night, 
And  wrote,  in  lettei's  of  ghastly  white, 

The  sentence  of  all  mankind : 
And  the  eyes  of  men,  in  the  awful  light 
Of  that  flaming  sky — grew  blind. 
A  shriek  of  desperate  wo — 
A  hopeless,  wailing,  lengthen' d  cry, 
Of  all  the  soul's  deep  agony — 
Went  up  to  that  red  sky. 
Hushed  were  their  voices  then  : 
And  on  the  stony  earth  they  sank — 

The  stricken  sons  of  men  ! 
Forgotten  now  w^ere  power  and  rank : 
The  diadems  of  kings  were  low ; 
Monarch  and  peasant  felt  the  blow : 
And  man  crept  nearer  to  his  brother — 

(He  cared  not  who  the  wretch  might  be) 
But  fearfulty  each  sought  another. 
For  fellowship  in  misery. 
The  beggar's  arm  was  wound  a  prince's  neck  around — - 
The  neck  of  royalty. 
They  waited  for  their  graves — 

That  silent  multitude 
The  monarch  and  his  slaves. 
In  golden  and  in  iron  chains. 
With  sightless  eyes  and  throbbing  veins, 
In  wild  confusion  stood. 


(A) 


Duganne. 

^    — 

METEICAL  MISCELLANIES. 

There  was  stillness  in  heaven  and  earth, 

Silence,  and  sadness,  and  gloom : 
The  world  had  forgotten  its  joyous  birth. 

And  waited  for  the  tomb. 
And  men  were  crouching  on  the  ground, 

And  listening  to  their  own  dull  breathing ; 
And  over  their  bodies,  and  round  and  round. 

The  slimy  snakes  were  wreathing. 

The  roar  of  the  tiger  was  hushed : 

The  lion  sank  down,  with  his  spirit  crushed; 
And  forth  from  their  caverns  the  jackals  rushed, 
And  mingled  with  mankind  ! — 
All — all^ — alike — were  blind  ! 


A  light,  low  sound,  as  of  falling  rain ! 

And  on  the  parched  and  fiery  plain 

The  showers  of  heaven  descended: 

They  cooled  the  hot  and  fevered  brain. 

And  men  were  lit  with  hope  again. 

As  if  the  curse  were  ended. 

But,  sudden  on  each  startled  ear. 

There  came  a  surging  sound  ! 

A  sound  as  of  the  moaning  seas, 

Or  like  the  Autumn's  sobbing  breeze, 

That  rolls  so  dolefully  around 

The  bare  and  bending  trees, — 

Solemn,  and  sad,  and  drear. 
300 

fc^^-eyi^  .    — 


3) 

0^) 


Poetical  Works. 


M  K  r  K  U;  A  I.   M I S  ( •  i:  IJ ,  A  M  ICS . 


Then  ciiiiie  tlie  tliiiii(ler-})oal  once  more, 
And  the  ruHliing  wind,  and  the  ocean-roar, 
And  the  galloping  waves  on  the  crumbling  shore, 

And  the  muttering  earthquake's  groan ; 
Then  the  sea  up-rose,  with  a  sudden  swell, 
And  the  heavy  clouds  unbroken  fell, 
Till  over  each  forest,  and  plain,  and  dell. 

The  watery  pall  was  thrown. 
Shriekings  w^ere  heard — Creation's  wail ! — 
Howlings  of  terror  rose  wild  on  the  gale, 

And  to  the  hills  they  fled — 
The  multitudes  of  sightless  men ! 
Where  were  their  shrines  of  marble  then? 

Where  were  their  gods  of  lead  ? 

They  mounted  to  the  hills — 

The  craggy  steeps  they  gained ; 

And  to  their  gods,  in  desperate  yells, 

Their  choking  voices  strained. 

The  slow,  engulfing  waves  drew  nigh — 

Against  each  rocky  cliff  they  beat : 

They  reached  each  steep,  each  mountain  high, 

They  licked  their  victims'  feet. 

Up,  up  ! — the  weaves  grew  wilder  yet 

They  mingled  with  the  bloody  sweat 

That  bathed  each  clammy  breast : 

Fiercely  they  came,  and  the  multitude  knelt. 

As  the  crawling  curse  on  their  limbs  they  felt ; 
301 


Duganne. 

METRICAL  MISCELLANIES. 

And  from  each  gasping  heart  arose 
A  cry  to  Him  who  ruled  their  woes ; 
And  each  dark  lip  confessed 
The  justness  of  their  doom! 
They  prayed  to  that  strange  God,  whose  ISTame 

Burned  in  their  souls  like  living  flame — 
Whose  withering  frown  athwart  the  skies, 
Robed  in  the  midnight's  sable  guise, 
Deepened  the  stormy  gloom, — 
They  prayed  to  that  strange  God,  whose  might 
Is  quick  to  save,  as  fierce  to  smite, 

To  shield  them  from  the  tomb ; 
Each  dark,  despairing  child  of  earth. 
To  Him  who  gave  Creation  birth— 

To  Him  who  rules  in  Heaven — 
A  deep  and  earnest  prayer  poured  forth, 
A  prayer — to  be  forgiven  ! 

The  scales  fell  from  their  eyes  ! 

They  saw  the  blessed  light ! 

'Twas  not  the  golden  sunlight's  gleam ; 

'Twas  not  the  pale  moon's  softer  beam ; 

But  the  light  of  heaven's  opening  skies 

Broke  through  the  stormy  night ; 

And  a  strain  of  angel  minstrelsies 

Fell  from  the  mystic  sky, 

Whispering  of  hope,  and  love,  and  peace, 

To  the  mortals  doomed  to  die  : 
302 


Poetical  Works, 


m>:tiu(;ai,  mjmokli.aniks. 


While  far  away,  on  the  waters  dark, 
They  saw  the  rescued  Prophet's  ark. 

God  in  his  power  is  kind  ! 

God  in  liis  wrath  still  loves ! 
Behold !  as  round  the  nations,  hent 

In  that  last  dying  prayer, 
Closes  the  narrowing  firmament — 

Ocean  devouring  air, — 
Behold  the  Sign  of  peace — a  Dove's 

White  wings  the  winds  up-bear ! 
The  multitudes  behold — believe — 
As  through  the  Dark  those  pinions  cleave. 


They  saw,  and  they  believed  ! — 

From  out  the  bending  sky. 

The  hope  of  immortality 
Their  changing  hearts  received. 
Beyond  the  grave  their  faith  was  cast — 
The  bitterness  of  death  was  past : 
And  Mercy,  from  the  vast  profound. 
Smiled  o'er  the  waste  where  Justice  frowned. 
And  in  the  choking  ocean's  fang, 
And  in  the  last,  sharp,  gasping  pang. 

When  soul  and  sense  were  riven. 

Their  closing  eyes  beheld  the  light — 

They  heard  the  Hymn  of  seraphs  bright. 

And  KNEW  they  were  forgiven. 
303 


6^ 


y^-^  Duganne. 

^^^^  METRICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


CARACTACUS-C)A   ROMAN  BALLAD. 


CLOSE  your  gates,  O  priests  of  Janus !  close  your 

brazen  temple  gates ! 
For  the  bold  Ostorius  Scapula  invokes  the  peaceful 

fates ; 

And  the  brave  Britannic  Legion  at  the  Arch  of  Tri- 
umph waits. 

Bold  Ostorius  —  home  returning — for  the  island  war 
is  o'er; 

And  the  wild  Silurian  rebels  shall  arise  in  arms  no 
more : 

Captive  stands  their  savage  monarch  on  the  Tiber's 
golden  shore. 


Crowded  are  the  banks  of  Tiber — crowded  is  the 
Appian  Way; 

And  through  all  the  Via  Sacra  ye  may  mark  the 
dense  array 

Of  the  tramping  throngs  who  celebrate  a  Eoman 
gala-day. 

304 


Poetical  Works. 


Ill  KT  U  M ;  A  I.    MI  SC ICI-I-  A  N I KH. 


Y     From  the  joyous   Campus  Martius  to  the  lonely 
Aventine — 

From    the    Capitolian    Palace   to   Apollo's  Tiber 
shrine — 

Hurrying  onward  to  the  Forum,  sweeps  the  long, 
unbroken  line. 

To  the  Forum,  wlicre  the  Captive — chief  of  Britain's 

savage  horde — 
He  who  smote  the  host  of  Plautius  with  his  fierce 

barbaric  sw^ord — 
To  the  Forum,  where  the  captive,  trembling,  waits  the 

Csesar's  word. 

Caractacus  !  Caractacus  !   Oh !  full  many  a  Koman 


To  its  mother's  breast  at  midnight  has  been  caught  in 
terror  wild. 

When  some  fearful  dream  of  Britain's  chief  her  sleep- 
ing sense  beguiled. 

Thrice  in  battle  sank  our  Eagles — shame  that  Romans 
lived  to  tell ! 

Thrice  three  years  our  baffled  legions  strove  this  rebel 

chief  to  quell : 
Yain  were  all  our  arms  against  him — till  by  treachery 


child 


he  fell. 


A 


METRICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


Duganne. 


Now,  behold !  he  Is  our  captive !  in  the  market-place 
he  stands, 

And  around  him  are  the  Lictors  and  the  stern  Prae- 
torian bands : 

Stands  he  like  a  king  among  them  —  lifting  high  his 
shackled  hands. 

Sure  he  sees  the  steel-clad  cohorts — sure  he  marks  the 
lictors  nigh, 

Yet  he  stands  before  our  monarch  with  a  glance  as 
proudly  high 

As  if  lie^  in  truth,  were  Csesar,  and  'twere  Claudius 
that  should  die. 

Gazes  he  o'er  prince  and  people,  with  a  glance  of  won- 
dering light — 

O'er  the  Eostra — o'er  the  Forum — up  the  Palatinian 
height — 

O'er  the  serried  ranks  of  soldiers  stretching  far  beneath 
his  sight. 

Grandly  swell  the  crash  of  cymbals,  blare  of  trump, 
and  roll  of  drum, 

As  adown  that  storied  market-place  the  veteran  co- 
horts come : 

Then,  at  once,  the  clamorous  shoutings  sink  into  a 
brooding  hum. 


^j^f^^^^^  Poetical  Works. 

MKTUICAL  MISCKLLANIK3. 

Tramping  onward  move  tlic  legions — tramping  on 

with  iron  tread, 
While  Ostorius,  marching  vanward,  proudly  bends  his 

martial  head — 
Proudly  bends  to  the  Ovation — meed  of  those  whom 
valor  led. 


Statue-like,  in  savage  grandeur,  stands  the  chief  of 

Britain's  isle; 
And  his  bearded  lip  is  wreathing,  as  with  silent  scorn, 

the  while : 

Bold  barbarian!  dost  thou  mock  us — mock  us  with 
that  bitter  smile? 


Lo !  thou  standesf  where  the  Brutus  sware  by  chaste 

Lucretia's  blood — 
Where  the  Roman   sire,  Virginius,  o'er  his  virgin 

daughter  stood ; 
And  where  Marcus  Curtius  perished — victim  for  his 

country's  good. 

Lo !  thou  standest  in  the  Forum — where  the  stranger's 

voice  is  free — 
Where  the  captive  may  bear  witness — thus  our  Roman 

laws  decree ! 

"Lift  thy  voice,  O  chief  of  Britons!"  'Tis  the  Csesar 
speaks  to  thee! — 
307 


Duganne. 

METRICAL  MISCELLANIES. 

"Lift  thy  voice,  0  wondering  stranger!    Thou  hast 

marked  our  Roman  state : 
All  the  terrors  —  all  the  glories  —  that  on  houndless 

empire  wait ! — 
Boldly  speak  thy  thought,  0  Briton  ! — be  it  framed  in 
love  or  hate!" 


Thus  our  monarch  to  the  stranger.    Then,  from  off  his 
forehead  fair, 

Backward,  with  a  Jove-like  motion,  flung  the  chief  his 
golden  hair : 

And  he  said — "0  King  of  Romans!  freely  I  my 
thought  declare : — 


"  Vanquished  is  my  warlike  nation — stricken  by  the 

Roman  sword; 
Lost  to  me  my  wife  and  children — long  have  I  their 

fate  deplored — 
They  are  gone — but  gloomy  Hertha(^)  still  enthralls 

their  hapless  lord. 


(3) 


"Yet  I  murmur  not — but  wonder  —  wonder,  as  in 

Jotna  dreams,  (^) 
At  each  strange  and  glittering  marvel  that  before  my 

vision  gleams ; 
At  the  blaze  of  Roman  glory  which  upon  my  senses 
streams. 

308 


Poetical  Works. 


MKTIUCAr,  MISCKI.LANIKS. 


if      "Romans!  even  us  gods  ye  prosper  —  boundless  are 


Ye  have  fields  with  grain  o'erladen  —  gardens  tliick 

with  fruits  and  flowers 
Halls  of  shining  marble  huilded  —  cities  strong  with 

battling  towers. 

"  L  have  marked  your  gorgeous  dwellings,  and  your 
w^orks  of  wondrous  art ; 

Bridges  high  in  air  suspended — columned  shrine,  and 
gilded  mart: — 

And  I  marveled — much  I  marveled — in  my  poor  bar- 
barian heart. 

"For  this  day  I  saw  your  mighty  gods  beneath  the 
Pantheon  dome — 

Gods  of  gold,  and  bronze,  and  silver!  —  and  I  mar- 
veled. King  of  Rome ! 

That  such  wealthy  gods  should  envy  me  my  poor, 
barbarian  home !" 

Ceased  the  chief — and  on  the  pavement  sadly  sank 

his  tearful  eyes, 
And  the  w^ondering  crowds  around  him  held  their 

breath  in  mute  surprise; 
Held  their  breath  —  and  then,  outbursting,  clove  the 
air  with  sudden  cries : 


your  gifts  and  powers ! 


  Duganne,   ^ 


As  when  round  the  hush'd  arena's  dust  a  swoon-like  ^ 


METRICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


^  silence  floats, 

While  the  Coliseum's  victor  o'er  his  dying  foeman 
gloats — 

And  as  breaks  the  sudden  plaudit  from  a  hundred 
thousand  throats. 


Thus  arose  the  voiceful  tumult — thus,  with  loud  and 
sudden  swell, 

Up  from  all  those  swaying  thousands  rose  the  shout  no 

king  might  quell : 
"  Csesar !  he  hath  spoken  bravely !    Claudius  !  he  hath 

spoken  well !" 


Not  unmoved  the  brow  of  Caesar  —  it  hath  lost  the 

Claudian  frown ; 
And  a  tear  upon  his  royal  cheek  is  slowly  trickling 
down : 

Never  purer  gem  than  Pity's  tear  enriched  a  mo- 
narch's crown ! 

Yet  he  speaks  in  anger's  accents — "  Ho !  advance  the 
fasces  now! 

Lictors  !  close  ye  round  the  scorner !    Ha !  barbarian ! 
smilest  thou? 

^.^     There  is  one  beneath  whose  glances  even  thy  haughty 
soul  shall  bow!" 


Poetical  Works. 


M  KT  III  ('A  U  M  ISC  KKL A  N I KS. 

Thus  spoke  Cliindius — and  the  sohliers,  opening  round 
M  the  curule  chair, 

Half  revealed  a  form  nuijestic  'mid  the  lictors  bending 
there — 

Half  revealed  a  stately  woman  —  mantled  by  her  ra- 
diant hair. 

Flashed  the  captive's  eye  with  sunlight — burned  his 

cheek  with  new-born  life — 
Hope,  and  fear,  and  doubt,  and  gladness,  held  by  turns 

their  eager  strife — 
Then  two  hearts  and  voices  mingled  —  murmuring, 
"Husband!"  answering,  "Wife!" 


THE  GERM  OF  GOOD. 


NO  feet  this  mortal  maze  have  thrid, 

Or  striven  its  stormy  ways  to  climb, 
That  could  not,  in  the  journey's  prime 
To  heavenly  paths  be  led. 
In  every  heart  there's  haply  hid 
(Though  choked  by  weeds  of  guile  and  crime,) 
Some  pure,  untainted  germ,  which  time 
And  nurture  may  to  flower  upbid : 
And,  oh !  it  were  a  task  sublime 
V.f  To  seek  this  germ,  all  withering  weeds  amid, 

^Wj       And  train  it,  till  it  hath  the  heart  from  venom  rid! 


Duganne. 


METRICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


BARONIAL  TIMES. 

PART  I.— BARONS  OF  THE  PAST. 

IN  the  old  baronial  times, 
When  the  feudal  lords  bore  sway, 
There  were  high  and  low,  and  friend  and  foe, 
As  there  are  in  this  our  day ; 
There  were  shrines  and  fanes,  and  swords  and  chains, 
Young  maids,  and  old  men  gray ! 
And  the  barons  kept  high  state. 
In  their  ancient  castle  halls — 
And  the  warders  stout  watched  well  without. 
Lest  foes  should  scale  the  walls ; 
And  down  far  deep,  in  the  donjon-keep, 
Were  chain'd  the  barons'  thralls. 

And  whenever  these  barons  bold 
Would  swell  their  golden  hoards. 
They  summoned  their  men  from  hill  and  glen. 


And  the  trumpet  brayed,  and  the  war-horse  neighed, 
And  the  minstrel  swept  his  chords. 
And  the  barons  bold  rode  forth, 
And  the  fray  was  fierce  and  long  ; 
For  with  deadly  blows  they  smote  their  foes. 
And  stormed  their  castles  strong — 
They  sacked  and  killed,  and  their  coffers  filled, — 
But  the  deed  (men  say)  was  wrong. 


And  bared  their  bright  broad-swords ; 


Poetical  Works. 

   ^ 

AlETKICAL  AU.SCKI,l,.VJVlt;8. 

And  whenever  these  barons  l)ol(l 
Would  iidd  to  theii'  hinds  a  rood, 
They  grappled  the  brand,  with  a  red  right  hand. 
And  seized  whatever  they  would — 
And  none  said  nay,  for  the  strong  bore  sway. 
And  the  Evil  ruled  the  Good. 
And  these  barons  bold  waxed  gi-eat. 
Till  the  feeble  feared  their  might : 
They  lived  like  Idngs,  and  the  bard  still  sings 
Of  their  deeds  in  feast  and  fight ; 
But  to  burn  and  steal,  and  to  sack  and  kill, 
Can  never  (men  say)  be  right. 


PART  II.  —  BARONS  OF  THE  PRESENT. 

In  the  new  baronial  times, 

The  barons  have  doffed  their  arms — 
And  the  shield  is  dust,  and  tlie  spear  is  rust. 
And  the  sword  no  more  alarms  ; 
And  the  trumpet-peal  and  the  flash  of  steel 
Have  lost  their  olden  charms. 
But  the  barons  still  bear  sway — 
In  a  lordly  state  they  dwell ; 
They  have  slaves  enow,  right  well  I  trow, 
And  rule  mth  a  mighty  spell ; 
And  for  bright  red  gold,  men's  lives  untold 
These  bai^ons  buy  and  sell. 

313 


(3 


Duganne. 

{f^'^^^   °   -^c^g\S- 

:  METRICAL   MIS  CELL  AJJIES.  i 

^  And  whenever  these  barons  proud  ^ 

Would  swell  their  golden  store,  2 
They  write  T\dth  a  pen  in  the  blood  of  men, 
And  the  human  heart  they  score  : 
They  shroud  the  soul  with  a  parchment  scroll,  | 
And  crush  men's  hopes  with  ore.  I 
And  the  widow's  cruse  they  grasp, 
And  the  orphan's  crust  of  bread — 
The  blind  man's  staff  they  seize,  with  a  laugh. 
And  the  pauper's  m^etched  bed ; 
Like  vampyres  they  prey  on  the  living  clay. 
And  like  ghouls  devour  the  dead. 
And  acres  of  goodly  land, 

And  houses  of  chiselled  stone. 
Brave  ships  of  the  sea,  and  forests  free, — 
They  gather  them,  one  by  one : 
The  Law  is  their  shield,  and  the  World  their  field, 
And  their  sword  is  Gold  alone. 


'Now,  tell  me  the  noblest  men  ! — 
The  barons  who  lived  of  old — 
The  wild,  proud  lords,  wdth  their  crimson  swords, 
And  their  deeds  so  fierce  and  bold, — 


Or  the  barons  who  ride  o'er  men's  hearts  in  pride, 
The  barons  whose  swords  are  gold  ! 


Poetical  Works. 


M ICTU 1 CA L  ^U.S C KL L A N IKS. 


PLYMOUTH  ROCK. 


ROCK  of  Freedom  !  old  and  hoary — 

Footstool  of  the  Pilgrim  band  ! 
Emblem  of  their  toil  and  glory — 

Altar  where  their  children  stand : 
Lo  !  we  keep  thy  name  immortal, 

We,  who  own  the  Pilgrim  stock ; 
For  they  marched  through  Freedom's  portal. 

O'er  her  threshold — Plymouth  Kock ! 

Bethel,  thou  !  of  wandering  nations — 

Pharos  through  the  gloom  of  time ; 
Patriots  mark  their  long  probations 

Ended  at  thy  base  sublime  ! 
There  the  tyrants  sink,  adoring. 

There  the  slaves  their  chains  unlock, 
There  the  freeman's  flag,  up-soaring. 

Points  to  mankind — Plymouth  Eock ! 

Rock  of  Freedom !    Proud  and  lonely, 

Once  it  braved  Atlantic's  roar : 
Once  its  bosom  bulwark' d  only 

Massachusetts'  stormy  shore ; 
Noiv,  where'er,  on  coast  or  border, 

Danger  threats  her  angry  shock, 
There,  be  sure — for  watch  and  warder — 

Stands,  for  aye,  a  Pilgrim  Rock ! 
315 


SS^^ — 


Duganne. 


METRICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


THE  ARMIES. 


PART  I. — ARMIES  OF  THE  PRESENT. 

SOUL!  behold  those  marshalled  armies, 
Threat'ning  Heaven  with  dire  alarms  ! 
Gorgeous  banners  wave  above  them — 

Flash  like  flame  their  gleaming  arms  ! 
Lo !  their  steeds  the  earth  are  trampling — 

Hark  !  their  brazen  trumpets  clang ; 
And  the  sulph'rous  clouds  of  battle 

Like  a  pall  above  them  hang. 
Shakes  the  ground  beneath  their  onset — 
Quakes  the  sky  mth  answering  dread ; 
And  the  iron  waltz  of  battle 

Whirls  along,  with  crashing  tread : 
Flash  the  flaming  tongues  of  muskets — 

Peals  the  cannon's  angry  roar ; 
And  the  shell's  loud  diapason 

Swells  the  awful  din  of  war. 
Storm-like  rolls  the  hurtling  onset — 
Leaden  drops  of  murderous  rain  ; 
Thund'rous  fall  the  angry  war-bolts — 

Crimson  rivers  cross  the  plain : 
Islands  rise  where  sink  the  bravest — 
Islands  formed  of  steeds  and  men ; 
From  the  earth  they  sprang  to  being — 
To  the  earth  are  trod  again. 


^tiilQsUL^       Poetical  Works.        ^  .^qO 

MKTIllCAI-  MISCKI.I.AMICS. 

Iron  hoots  iww  on  ineii's  1)()soiuh — 

Hearts  are  cruslicd  by  ciiinioii-wheels  ; 
Still  the  clruiu-beat  gaily  souudeth — 

Still  the  cheering  bugle  peals. 
Sheaves  of  souls  like  chaff  are  winnowed — 

Swept  beneath  the  whirl  of  fire ; 
Still  the  trumpet  merrily  clangeth — 
Still  the  flags  are  mounting  higher. 


Back — ftir  back  behind  those  armies — 

Move,  with  feeble  steps  and  slow, 
Ranks  of  pale  and  faded  maidens, 

Clad  in  garbs  of  sable  wo ; 
Lines  of  orphaned  babes  and  widows — 

Dying  mothers,  childless  sires  ; — 
Merrily  still  resounds  the  bugle, 

Brightly  gleam  the  battle  fires. 


PART  II. — ARMIES  OF  THE  FUTURE. 

SOUL!  look  forth  where  shines  the  Future  ! 

Lo  !  where  march  in  radiant  lines, 
Glorious  hosts  with  snow-white  banners — 

Banners  bright  with  holiest  signs — 
Gleams  the  Press,  in  golden  glory — 

Shines  the  Plough,  in  silken  pride ; 
Waves  aloft  the  flashing  Anvil — 

Floats  the  ponderous  Sledge  beside. 


Duganne. 


METRICAL  MISCELLANIES. 

Stalwart  men,  with  limbs  of  iron, 

Bear  those  gleaming  flags  above: 
Men  with  lips  and  eyes  of  gladness — 

Valiant  souls  and  hearts  of  love. 
Rings  o'er  earth  their  loud  hosanna — 

Soar  to  heaven  those  banners  fair  : 
Hark !  the  eternal  concave  echoes — 

Labor  !  labor ! — work  is  prayer ! 


O'er  earth's  plains  sweep  on  those  armies : 

Mountains  fall  beneath  their  blows ; 
Lo  !  they  choke  the  red  volcanoes — 

Lo  !  they  grapple  Iceland  snows  ! 
Rush  their  ploughs  through  black  morasses — 

Roll  their  cars  through  deserts'  gloom  ; 
Dark  Miasma  flies  before  them — 

Shrinks  in  dread  the  hot  Simoom  ! 

Gleam  with  golden  grain  the  deserts — 

Shine  the  swamps  with  flow'rets  bright ; 
Still  march  on  those  glorious  armies — 

Wave  their  flags  in  radiant  light. 
Ocean's  storms  to  them  are  playthings — 

Chained  are  Earth,  and  Fire,  and  Air ; 
Merrily  rings  their  loud-voiced  anthem — 

''Labor!  labor! — work  is  prayer!" 


Poetical  Works.  ^  Jxrv-f 


MICTRICAI.  MI8(;HM.ANIi:S. 


Following  close  those  conquering  armies — 

Dancing  on  with  twinkling  feet — 
White-armed  maids  and  flower-crown'd  children 

Haste  those  warrior-men  to  greet — 
Hands  are  clasped  in  holiest  union ; 

Joy,  like  incense,  soars  above : 
Hail !  thrice  hail !  the  Industrial  Armies ! 

Hail  the  immortal  Strife  of  Love  ! 

TO   THE  PRINTERS. 


BRETHREN  of  the  Art  of  Arts: 
Sons  of  those  old  German  spirits 
Through  whose  toil  the  world  inherits 

All  the  joys  that  lore  imparts, — 

Know  ye,  that  from  out  your  hearts 
Ye  should  ne'er  permit  to  perish 

Faust  or  Guttenburger's  fame ! — 
Never  cease  to  fondly  cherish 
Ancient  Schaeffer's  name! 

But  let  not  their  names  alone 
In  your  memory  be  enshrined — 
Cherish  ye  their  searching  mind — 

Make  their  noble  thoughts  your  own : 
Then  above  all  slavish  fetters. 

Proudly  marked,  shall  rise  your  order — 

Then  the  glorious  Craft  of  Letters 

Shall  be  Freedom's  Watch  and  Warder. 
319 


IP 


Duganne. 


METRICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


ODE  TO  powers'  GREEK  SLAVE. 


0  aREEK!  by  more  than  Moslem  fetters  thrall'd ! 
O  marble  prison  of  a  radiant  thought ! 
Where  life  is  half  recalled — 
And  Beauty  dwells,  created,  not  enwrought, — 
Why  hauntest  thou  my  dreams,  enrobed  in  light, 

And  atmosphered  with  purity,  wherein 
Mine  own  soul  is  transfigured,  and  grows  bright, 
As  though  an  angel  smiled  away  its  sin  ? 


A 


0  chastity  of  Art ! 

Behold  !  this  maiden  shape  makes  solitude 

Of  all  the  busy  mart ; 

Beneath  her  soul's  immeasurable  woe, 

All  sensuous  vision  lies  subdued; 

And,  from  her  veiled  eyes,  the  flow 

Of  tears  is  inward  turned  upon  her  heart : 

While  on  the  prisoning  lips 

Her  eloquent  spirit  swoons, 

And  from  the  lustrous  brows'  eclipse 

Falls  patient  glory,  as  from  clouded  moons ! 
320 


Poetical  Works. 

MKTUIUAL  MlHCIOI-IiAMKB. 

----^  Severe  in  vestal  grace,  yet  warm 

ol  And  flexile  with  the  delicate  glow  of  youth, 

7  She  stands,  the  sweet  embodiment  of  truth ; 

Her  pure  thoughts  clustering  around  her  form, 
Like  seraph  garments,  whiter  than  the  snows 
Wliich  the  wild  sea  upthrows. 

0  Genius  !  thou  canst  chain 
"Not  marble  only,  but  the  human  soul  : 
And  melt  the  heart  with  soft  control, 
And  wake  such  reverence  in  the  brain, 
That  man  may  be  forgiven. 
If  in  the  ancient  days  he  dwelt 
Idolatrous  with  sculptured  life,  and  knelt 
To  Beauty  more  than  Heaven ! 

Genius  is  worship !  for  its  works  adore 
The  Infinite  Source  of  all  their  glorious  thought ! 
So  blessed  Art,  like  Nature,  is  o'erfraught 

With  such  a  wondrous  store 
Of  hallowed  influence,  that  we  who  gaze 
Aright  on  her  creations,  haply  pray  and  praise ! 

Go,  then,  fair  Slave  !  and  in  thy  fetters  teach 
What  Heaven  inspired  and  Genius  hath  designed ; 
Be  thou  Evangel  of  true  Art,  and  preach 
The  freedom  of  the  Mind ! 


Duganne.  ^ 


METEICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


AN  HONEST  BALLAD  TO  JOHN  BULL, 

[Per  MARTIN  farquhab  tuppeh,] 
In  reply  tc  a  "LOVING  BALLAD  TO  BROTHER  JONATHAN ;"( 5) 

From  MARTIN  FAHQUHAR  TUPPER. 


r  VU  read  your  ballad,  Johnny  Bull ! 

A  dozen  times  or  more — 
'Faith !  at  my  heart  it  took  a  pull, 

That  drew  me  "  half-seas  o'er 
I  felt  the  "Anglo-Saxon"  run 

Through  neck,  and  cheek,  and  forehead : 
I  might  have  been  your  shadow,  J ohn  ! 

I  grew  so  very  florid. 


It  sort  o'  tickled  me,  I  own, 

To  read  sich  printed  praise : 
Sez  I,  old  Johnny 's  cuter  grown 

In  these  his  latter  days. 
I  calculated  all  was  true. 

And  jist  as  good  as  preachin', 
Because,  friend  John !  you  know  that  tew 

Can  play  at  over-reachin'. 

322 


Poetical  Works.  ^^-f 


METRICAL  MISCKLLANIK.S. 


But  still  it  sort  o'  puzzled  mc, 

To  think  how,  all  at  once, 
Sich  virtoos  in  a  chap  you  see, 

You  used  to  call  a  dunce 
It's  surely  but  the  other  day, 

You  asked,  with  scornful  look, 
"Who  heeds  a  Yankee  journal,  pray? 

Wlio  reads  a  Yankee  hook?" 


O!  Johnny  Bull!    0!  Johnny  Bull! 

It's  really  grown  too  late 
Of  brotherhood  so  beautiful 

'Twixt  you  and  me  to  prate. 
A  Cain-like  chap  you'd  proved,  I  ween, 

Had  you  disabled  us — 
A  brother  Remus  we'd  have  been. 

And  you  our  Romulus  ! 


Our  friendship,  John !  you  might  have  won, 

(Pre-haps  have  gained  our  love,) 
When  we  were  but  an  eaglet,  John  ! 

And  gentle  as  a  dove. 
But  you  were  vicious,  then,  and  tried 

To  clip  our  growing  wings : 
Your  brother  didn't  like  sich  pride, 

And  didn't  b'lieve  in  kings  ! 
323 


Duganne, 


METRICAL  MISCELLANIES. 

Your  "British  G-ranny-DearSy'  good  John! 

We  often  recollect ! 
They  journeyed  once  through  Lexington, 

Quite  gaily,  I  suspect. 
And  "Yankee  Doodle"  's  liked  as  well, 

I  douht  it  not,  by  you,  John  ! — 
At  Yorktown  on  your  ears  it  fell. 
And  Saratoga,  too,  John  ! 


If 


It  may  have  been,  as  now  you  sing, 

That  our  old  English  sires 
Have  battled  for  some  tyrant  king, 

Or  lit  his  Smithfield  fires  : 
It  may  have  been  that  sires  o'  mine 

Have  bent  the  vassal's  knee,  John  ! 
But  from  the  hoast  o'  sich  a  line, 

Good  Lord  deliver  me,  John  ! 


Thank  God  !  that  Shakspeare  lived  and  sung ! 

For  Milton,  Heaven  be  praised  ! 
The  flame  from  out  their  spirits  flung 

Through  all  the  world  has  blazed. 
Right  glad  are  we  that  English  birth 

For  souls  like  these  you  claim,  John : 
But  recollect  that  all  the  eaiiJi 
Is  narrow  for  their  fame,  John  ! 
324 


Poetical  Works. 

MKTUICAL  WISCKI.LANIES. 

We  shared  your  glorious  days,  good  John ! 

But,  oil!  we're  modest  now! 
We  don't  lay  claim  to  aught  that's  done 

In  present  years,  I  trow. 
We  beg  to  be  excused  from  fame 

Through  China  or  Bengal,  John  I 
And  thank  you  not  to  use  our  name, 

When  Ireland  you  recall,  J ohn  ! 

Pre-haps,  good  Johnny !  by  and  by, 

When  kings  are  obsolete. 
And  soldiers  thrown  like  rubbish  by, 

And  sceptres  under  feet ; 
When  laws  of  corn,  and  laws  of  game. 

And  tithings  are  no  more,  J  ohn  ! 
When  Ireland  isn't  England's  shame. 

And  India  isn't  sore,  John  ! 

When  starving  men  have  gained  their  own, 

And  lords  and  dukes  are  sparse ; 
When  ballot-boxes  rule  the  throne. 

And  pauper-soup  is  scarce, — 
When  England's  noble  peasantry. 

And  England's  laboring  men,  John  ! 
In  soul  and  limb  are  glad  and  free — 

We'll  call  you  "Brother,"  then,  John ! 


Duganne. 


METRICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


PROVERBIAL  PHILOSOPHY, 


I. 

THERE  'S  a  man  in  England's  Fpper 
Ten,  with  dainty  feed  for  supper — 
Mister  Martin  Farquhar  Tupper 

Is  his  name : 
And  he 's  writ  full  many  a  poem 
For  the  poorer  class,  to  show  'em. 
That  if  poverty  should  blow  'em, 

They  themselves  are  most  to  blame — 
That  advice  is  what  we  owe  'em, 

And  equality 's  a  shame. 


II. 

It  is  well  for  Mister  Tupper 

Thus  to  preach  from  Fortune's  upper 

Deck,  that  those  within  the  scupper 

Should'nt  pine  for  tish  or  fowl : 
That  to  grunt  is  very  silly, 
And  that  life's  a  daffy-dilly, 
And  the  Poor  Man — will-he,  nill-he — 

Must  be  silent  as  an  owl — 
And  if  things  grow  well  or  ill,  he 

I^ever  should  presume  to  growl. 


Poetical  Works. 

g^js^    '^^^'S 

UETBIOAL  MISCULLANIKS. 

III. 

That's  good  talk  for  Mister  Tupper, 
Who  is  fast  in  Fortune's  crupper ; 
While  he  drinks  a  stirrup-cup,  or 
Two — it's  famous  talk  for  him  : 
But,  if  he'd  but  leave  his  dinner, 
And  become  some  pauper  sinner — 
Some  poor  weaver,  or  some  spinner, 

Working,  sick  in  heart  and  limb, — 
He'd  see  something  of  the  inner 
Life,  that  now  to  him  is  dim ! 


EVER   BE   HAPPY.  (6) 


EVER  be  happy,  wherever  thou  art — 

Leaving  a  broken  heart ; 
Still  be  thy  bosom  unclouded  with  care, 
Though  I  no  more  am  there : 
Yet,  like  a  star. 
Worshipped  afar, 
Purely  loved  still  thou  art — 
Loved  by  a  broken  heart. 

327 

  -~  


Duganne. 

(3==  ^ 


METRICAL  MISCELLANIES. 

Well  I  remember  the  hours  that  we  met — > 

Oh  !  that  I  could  forget ! 
Oh !  that  Oblivion  might  haply  o'ercast 
Joys  that  too  brightly  passed  ! 
Oh !  that  my  soul 
Thought  might  control. 
And  forget  that  thou  wert 
Loved  by  a  trusting  heart ! 

I  can  but  bless  thee,  wherever  thou  art — 

Bless  thee  with  hopeless  heart ; 
I  can  but  pray  that  no  grief  shall  be  thine, 
Grief  such  as  now  is  mine. 
Though  in  the  dust 
Lies  all  my  trust, 
Yet  beloved  still  thou  art — 
Loved  by  a  changeless  heart. 


Ever  my  spirit  in  memory  returns, 
Fondly  my  heart  still  yearns : 
Yet  must  I  love  thee,  and  call  thee  mine  own, 
Still  is  my  heart  thy  throne ; 
Joy's  dream  is  past, — 
Death  comes  at  last  : 
Yet  beloved  still  thou  art — 
Loved  by  a  dying  heart ! 
Ever  be  happy,  wherever  thou  art — 


3=- 


Poetical  Works, 


MK.TUICAI.  MIHCia.I-ANl 


THE  autocrat's  TRIUMPH. (?) 


A  MUSCOVITE  stood  on  the  Capitol  Hill— 

A  serf  of  Autocrat  Nicholas ; 
And  over  the  city  of  Washington 

He  looked  through  an  opera-glass. 

He  chuckled,  and  smacked  his  hairy  lips, 
And  shook  his  sides  with  laughter, 

As  a  slave-gang  crawled  through  the  Avenue, 
With  a  driver  following  after. 

"  This  building  they  call  the  Capitol," 

Quoth  he,  "  is  surely  grand — 
But  down  by  the  river  stands  one  which  suits 

My  own  dear  native  land ! 

"  I  like  that  building — in  faith,  I  do ! 

For  out  of  it,  all  day  long. 
Come  clank  of  chain  and  crack  of  lash, 

And  groans  from  agony  wrung. 

"  Ho,  ho !  'twould  glad  my  master's  heart — 

My  master,  the  Autocrat  

But,  ah  !  what  tumult  is  this  I  hear  ? 

That  rushing  crowd — what's  that?" 


i 


Duganne, 


METHICAL  MISCELLANIES. 

The  Muscovite  looked  through  his  opera-glass, 

And  he  almost  danced  with  joy; 
For  he  saw  a  mob,  and  he  heard  the  shout. 
Of  "burn !"— "  tear  down  !"—" destroy !" 

"Ho,  ho!"  laughed  Muscovy,  long  and  loud — 

"  The  meaning  of  this  I  guess ; 
These  brave  and  happy  Republicans 
-  Are  about  to  muzzle  a  Press  ! 

"This  does  me  good,  by  Peter  the  Great! 

There's  hope  for  despots  yet ! 
When  the  heel  of  a  mob  in  Washington 

On  a  fallen  Press  is  set. 

"  I  feared,  when  Phillippe  was  sent  adrift 
For  muzzling  the  voice  of  thought — 

But  I  see  these  model  Republicans 
Are  better  than  Frenchmen  taught. 

"  Ho,  ho !    Ho,  ho !  well  done !  well  done ! 

For  freedom  of  thought  is  o'er ! 
The  Press  is  bullied  in  Washington, 

And  Tyranny's  safe  once  more!" 


330 


Poetical  Works. 


■o- 


0- 


MKTRICAL  MISCKLLANIES. 


THE   PRAYER   OF  JESUS. 


PEA  YED  the  Christ,  when,  pale  and  dying, 

On  the  cruel  cross  he  hung— 
When  the  Temple-veil  was  rended. 

And  the  night  o'er  day  was  flung; 
"WTien  the  hireling  soldier's  spear-point 

Pierced  his  anguished  bosom  through, — 
"  Father  !  forgive  my  murderers  ! 

"  For  they  know  not  what  they  do !" 

Mocking  lips  his  woes  derided — 

Heads  were  bowed  in  scornful  pride ; 
Judas  had  betrayed  his  Master — 

Peter  thrice  his  Lord  denied ; 
Yet  still  prayed  the  Christ,  unfaltering, 

While  his  gasping  breath  he  drew, 
"  Father  !  forgive  my  murderers  ! 
"For  they  know  not  what  they  do." 


I 


4) 
I 


Duganne. 

METRICAL  MISCELLANIES. 

Be  the  Christ  thy  soul's  example  ! 

Pray,  with  heart  sincere  and  true, 
"  Father  !  forgive  my  murderers ! 

"For  they  know  not  what  they  do." 

Thou,  whose  bruised  and  broken  spirit 

Groaneth  with  continual  strife — 
Thou,  who  sinkest,  faint  with  suffering, 

By  the  weary  way  of  life,— 
Pray,  thou  still,  with  foemen  round  thee — 

Pray,  when  friends  are  weak  and  few, 
"  Father  !  forgive  my  murderers  ! 

"  For  they  know  not  what  they  do." 

Pray,  my  brother !    Lo !  thy  suffering 

Shall  redeem  thy  cruel  foes  ! 
For  each  prayer,  in  anguish  rising, 

Back  to  earth  in  mercy  flows : 
Like  the  Christ,  O  pray,  my  brother ! 

Pray,  with  soul  serene  and  true, — 
"  Father  !  forgive  my  murderers ! 

"  For  they  know  not  what  they  do !" 


33: 


A 


Poetical  Works. 


METUICAI.  MISCELLANIK3. 


THE  drunkard's   LAMENT. (s) 


TM  thinking  on  thy  smile,  Mary! 

Thy  bright  and  trusting  smile — 
In  the  morning  of  our  youth  and  love, 

Ere  sorrow  came,  or  guile ; 
"When  thine  arms  w^ere  twined  about  my  neck. 

And  mine  eyes  look'd  into  thine; 
And  the  heart  that  throbb'd  for  me  alone 

Was  nestling  close  to  mine. 

I  see  full  many  a  smile,  Mary ! 

On  young  lips  beaming  bright ; 
And  many  an  eye  of  light  and  love 

Is  flashing  in  my  sight : 
But  the  smile  is  not  for  mi/  poor  heart, 

And  the  eye  looks  strange  on  me ; 
And  a  loneliness  comes  o'er  my  soul, 

When  its  memory  turns  to  thee. 

I'm  thinking  on  the  night,  Mary ! 

The  night  of  grief  and  shame, 
Wlien,  with  drunken  ravings  on  my  lip, 


To  thee  I  homeward  came: 


4 


Duganne. 


METRICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


Oh  !  the  tear  was  in  thine  earnest  eye, 

And  thy  bosom  wildly  heaved ; 
Yet  a  smile  of  love  was  on  thy  cheek, 

Though  thy  heart  was  sorely  grieved. 

Oh !  my  words  were  harsh  to  thee,  Mary ! 

For  the  wine-cup  made  me  wild ; 
And  I  chid  thee  when  thine  eyes  were  sad, 

And  I  cursed  thee  when  they  smil'd. 
God  knows  I  loved  thee,  even  then. 

But  the  fire  was  in  my  brain ; 
And  the  curse  of  drink  was  in  my  heart. 

To  make  my  love  a  bane ! 

'Twas  a  pleasant  home  of  ours,  Mary ! 

In  the  spring-time  of  our  life — 
When  I  look'd  upon  thy  trusting  face, 

And  proudly  call'd  thee,  "wife!" 
And  'twas  pleasant  when  the  children  play'd, 

Before  our  cottage  door ; — 
But  the  children  sleep  with  thee,  Mary ! 

I  ne'er  shall  see  them  more ! 

Thou  art  resting  in  the  churchyard  now. 

And  no  stone  is  at  thy  head ; 
But  the  sexton  knows  a  drunkard's  wife 

Sleeps  in  that  lowly  bed  : 


3  34 


Poetical  Works. 


MKTUICAL  MIHCICLKANIKH. 


And  he  says  the  hand  of  God,  Mary ! 

Will  fall,  with  crushing  weight, 
On  the  wretch  who  brought  thy  gentle  life 

To  its  untimely  fate  ! 

But  he  know^s  not  of  the  broken  heart 

I  bear  within  my  breast, 
Nor  the  heavy  load  of  vain  remorse, 

That  will  not  let  me  rest ! 
He  knows  not  of  the  sleepless  nights, 

When,  dreaming  of  thy  love, 
I  seem  to  sec  thine  angel  eyes 

Look  coldly  from  above. 

I  have  raised  the  wine-cup  in  my  hand, 

And  the  wildest  strains  I've  sung, 
Till  with  the  laugh  of  drunken  mirth 

The  echoing  air  has  rung, — 
But  a  pale  and  sorrowing  face  look'd  out 

From  the  glittering  cup  on  me ; 
And  a  trembling  whisper  I  have  heard. 

That  I  fancied  breath' d  by  thee ! 

Thou  art  resting  in  the  silent  grave, 
And  thy  sleep  is  dreamless  now ; 
But  the  seal  of  an  undying  grief 
Is  on  thy  mourner's  brow  ! 


335 


Duganne. 

METRICAL  MISCELLANIES. 

And  my  heart  is  chill  as  thine,  Mary ! 

For  the  joys  of  life  have  fled — 
And  I  long  to  lay  my  aching  breast 
With  the  cold  and  dreamless  dead ! 


COLUMBUS   AND  GARIBALDI. 


OiVthe  crowded  quays  of  Genoa 

Walk'd  a  discontented  man — 
Gazing  forth  upon  the  ocean 

Far  as  straining  eye  could  scan ; 
Fix'd  and  pallid  was  his  forehead ; 

And  his  arms  were  tightly  lock'd 
Over  the  heart  that  in  his  bosom 

Like  a  surging  billow  rock'd. 


Gazed  he  forth  upon  the  ocean, 

Through  the  clouds  of  misty  night — 
Gazed  he  forth  when  dancing  sunshine 

Robed  the  sea  in  golden  light ; 
And  his  lips  would  mutter  strangely, 

And  his  forehead  weave  a  frown, 
Whilst  he  hugg'd  his  heart  more  tightly, 

As  'twere  hard  to  keep  it  down. 
336 


Poetical  Works. 

   =3^--^')^:3 


MKTIUCAL  MISCKI-LANIKS. 


Gatlicr'd  tlic  people  oft  around  him — 

Jeering  men  and  laughing  maids ; 
Mocking  scorn,  and  freezing  pity — 

Nodding  chins  and  wagging  heads. 
And  the  gray  beards  cried,  "  Good  Jesu ! 

"  'Tis  a  sight  should  make  us  sad  ! 
*'  This  poor  man  has  gone  demented — 

"Poor  Columbus,  sure,  is  mad!" 


Like  that  madman  of  old  story, 

Stands  another  Genoese  now — 
Fixing  on  the  Future's  ocean 

Earnest  eye  and  pallid  brow ; 
Throbs  his  heart  with  ardent  longings, 

But  he  uttereth  not  his  thought ; 
For  the  might  of  his  conceptions 

In  the  Future  must  be  wrought. 


Like  Columbus,  looks  he  outward. 

Through  the  gloomy  clouds  Qf  night, 
To  a  WORLD  of  glorious  beauty  ^ 
Shining  in  upon  his  sight.  I 
Heeds  he  not  the  jibes  and  mocking —  j 
Heeds  he  not  the  words  of  scorn  !  | 
For  the  act  is  in  the  future—  1 

/jj,  Though  the  thought  be  newly  born.  m 

P^-^    -l-^Jk 


Duganne. 

METRICAL  MISCELLANIES. 

Garibaldi  !  mount  thine  ocean  ! 

Grasp  the  helm,  and  sway  the  bark ! 
Onward,  0  thou  Genoese  sailor ! 

Freedom  is  thy  glorious  mark. 
Golden  lands  gave  old  Columbus 

To  the  grasping  kings  of  Spain  ! 
Thou  mayst  win  thy  country's  birthright — 

Freedom  for  Italia  gain  ! 


REQUIEM   FOR   JOHN   QUINCY  ADAMS. 


THERE  is  a  shadow  on  the  souls  of  men — 

There  is  a  sound  as  of  a  nation's  sob, 
And  a  wild-heaving  sorrow,  like  the  throb 
Of  a  giant's  mighty  heart. 
Adams  is  dead ! 
"This  is  the  last  of  earth  !"    O'er  plain  and  glen 
Those  w^ords  are  wandering  like  a  troubled  bird, 
And  the  deep  waters  of  all  hearts  are  stirred ; 

He  hath  no  longer  part 
In  the  rude  warfare  of  the  troublous  world ! 
He  who  hath  borne  God's  armor  in  the  fight — 
He  who  hath  struck  brave  blows  for  human  right, 
And  wrestled  with  the  fiercest  wrongs,  and  hurled 
His  thunders  at  the  brazen  front  of  might, — 
Adams  is  dead ! 
338 


i'ilQjlsi^       Poetical  Works, 


M 10  ri  1 1  ( ;  A I ,  M I  s  ( ;  i;  ij  -  A  N 1 1:  H . 


lie  hath  writ  his  glorious  nieiiiory  on  the  page 
Of  a  great  people's  history,  and  the  hlaze 
Of  his  all-radiant  life  shall  be  enshrined — 

A  lofty  beacon  light, 
A  pillar  of  fire  amid  his  country's  night — 

A  flame  upon  the  altar  of  mankind, 
Fann'd  by  the  breath  of  patriots,  whereso'er 
Risetli  a  freeman's  prayer ! 
lie  hath  ruled  o'er  generous  natures,  and  sunk  down 
Gloriously  diademed  with  the  reverend  crown 
Of  pure  and  spotless  age  ! — 
Brighter  and  larger,  as  the  dying  sun 
Sinks  in  the  ocean  wave — ^his  golden  grave. 
Meet  was  it  that  he  died 
"Within  those  walls  that  heard  his  clarion  tones 

Echoing  of  yore  from  Freedom's  council-floor, 
And  startling  Europe's  despots  on  their  thrones, — 
Meet  was  it  that  he  died, 
Grasping  the  helm  which  none  might  better  guide. 

Raise  ye  a  monument  I 
Yet  pile  not  stones,  nor  build  up  walls  of  brass. 

For  "the  old  man  eloquent!" 
But  gather  chains,  by  his  stern  thunders  broken —  ; 

Rear  ye  the  crumbled  idols  that  he  crush' d —  j 
'Grave  on  those  ruins  the  warnings  he  hath  spoken, —  ) 
And  crown  the  mass  | 
With  the  lofty  hopes  that  from  his  bosom  gush'd  !  ( 

339 


Duganne. 


METRICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


4 


Then  shall  his  parting  words  be  given 
In  blessings  from  his  glorious  heaven — 


Then  shall  each  mystic  word, 
Wherewith  his  lofty  life  was  closed, 


To  Freedom's  lips  be  prayerfully  transferr'd: — 


"I  AM  composed!" 
TO   MY  LADY. 


COME  hither,  lady!  come! 

Thou  art  gloriously  fair — 
And  thine  eyes  are  purer,  brighter. 

Than  the  jewels  in  thy  hair. 
There  is  music  in  thy  motions — 

There  is  perfume  in  thy  smile ; 
Gentle  lady!  wilt  thou  listen 

To  the  Poet's  song  awhile? 

I'll  tell  thee,  lady  bright ! 

ISTay,  incline  thy  lofty  head ! — 
I  will  tell  thee  of  thy  sisters. 

Who  are  famishing  for  bread ! 
Through  the  weary  midnight  toiling, 

Through  the  chill  and  dreary  day ; 
They  are  sisters,  lovely  lady ! 

Pr'ythee,  list  the  Poet's  lay  ! 


Poetical  Works. 


MllTKlCAI.  MI,SCKI,LANIi;S. 


? 


Thy  sisters  call  to  tlicc — 
0  thou  beautiful  and  bright ! 


See  !  their  eyes  are  dull  and  suidceii, 
And  their  cheeks  so  thin  and  white ! 


Look !  their  foreheads  burn  with  fever, 
While  their  hearts  are  chill  with  fear : 

Thou  art  weeping,  beauteous  lady ; — 
Heaven  bless  thee  for  that  tear ! 

List !  gentle  lady,  list : — 

Thou  ^vilt  hear  the  smothered  sighs 
Of  the  hopeless  one  who  liveth, 

Of  the  happier  one  who  dies. 
Thou  hast  sisters  who  are  outcast — 

Yet  through  misery  they  erred ; 
They  are  pining — yea,  they  perish 

For  a  single  kindly  word ! 

Come  hither,  lady !  come  ! — 

There  are  hearts  which  thou  may'st  warm ! 
Be  an  angel  in  thy  mercies, 

As  thou  hast  an  angel  form. 
Come,  and  soothe  thy  suffering  sisters, 


Oh  !  the  poor  are  always  with  thee  !— 


Fair  and  gentle  as  thou  art ! 


They  are  kneeling  at  thy  heart ! 


34 


Duganne. 


METRICAL  MISCELLANIES. 


T 


f 


REQUIEM   FOR  A  BELOVED  CHILD. 


HE  lies  in  beauty  with  our  griefs  around  him — 
So  sweetly  folded  in  his  snowy  shroud ; 

As  if  'twere  but  a  gentle  sleep  that  bound  him — 
As  if  a  dream  alone  our  spirits  bowed. 

Ah,  me  !  a  sleep  that  knows  no  earthly  waking — 
A  dream  that  may  not  flee  with  morning  hours  ; 

Oh  !  blossom  of  the  hearts  that  now  are  breaking ! — 
It  blows  no  more  among  our  household  flowers. 

Alas  !  the  Hope,  that  clung  around  his  being ! 

The  Faith,  that  traced  in  light  his  future  years ! 
The  Love,  that  all  his  virtues  was  foreseeing  ! — 

Must  these,  alas !  be  dimmed  with  bitter  tears  ? 

Oh !  no !  the  Hope  looks  upward  still  to  heaven ; 

The  Faith  soars  calmly  to  the  realms  above ; 
The  Love,  that  to  our  earthly  child  was  given, 

Still  mingles  in  his  soul  with  angel  love. 

And,  oh  !  the  years  that  now  our  babe  has  entered! 

The  virtues  clustering  round  his  seraph  brow ! 
How  weak  our  trust  that  late  on  earth  was  centred — 


How  sure  the  promise  that  sustains  us  now ! 


Poetical  Works. 



MKTItlCAI.  MISCKM.ANIKS. 

This  oftering,  Je^us  !  to  Thiiic  arms  we  tender — 

Our  child,  oiu*  hahe,  our  little  one,  we  yield  : 
Its  fragrance,  Lord!  te  Thee  we  hunihly  render — 
Our  choicest  flower — tlie  lily  of  our  field  : — 

To  bloom  beneath  thy  smile — to  dwell  beholding 

The  wondrous  mystery  of  thy  love  divine; 
Its  beauteous  petals  evermore  unfolding — 

Its  opening  heart,  dear  Lord !  so  near  to  Thine 

0  angel-child  ! — 0  earthly  one  immortal ! — 

Pure  messenger  from  out  this  world  of  sin  ! 
Our  darling's  form  hath  oped  the  heavenly  portal, 
And  streams  of  glory  bathe  us  from  within. 


343 


Duganne. 


NOTES 

•TO 

MtUital  Mimllmm. 


(1)  Caractacus. 

Cabactacus  was  a  British  prince,  who  placed 
himself  at  the  head  of  the  Silures,  a  people  of 
North  Wales,  in  a  revolt  against  the  Romans. 
He  defeated  the  Roman  general,  Plautius,  in 
three  pitched  battles;  but,  after  a  protracted 
struggle  of  nine  years,  was  overcome  by  Osto- 
Rius,  Roman  governor  of  Britain,  who  took 
captive  the  chieftain's  wife  and  daughter.  Ca- 
ractacus took  refuge  with  Cartismandua,  Queen 
of  the  Brigantes ;  but  was  treacherously  de- 
livered up  to  Ostorius,  and  carried  by  him  to 
Rome,  where  (his  fame  having  reached  the 
capital)  a  great  concourse  of  people  attended, 
to  witness  his  introduction  to  the  Emperor 
Claudius.  The  behaviour  of  the  noble  barba- 
rian, on  this  occasion,  was  firm  and  magnani- 
mous, as,  with  an  erect  presence,  he  replied  to 
the  Caesar's  questions ;  and  the  latter  had  the 
generosity  to  admit  his  defence,  and,  releasing 
hira  from  his  chains,  ordered  his  wife  and  child 
to  be  restored  to  him.—  Vide  Taciti  AxxVAL.  xii. 
(2)  gloomy  Hertha. 

Hertha,  in  Scandinavian  mythology,  corre- 
sponds to  the  western  goddess  Tekra,  or  Earth. 
(3)  Jotna  dreams. 

"  Jotna"  is  the  state  of  supernatural  slum- 
ber into  which  (according  to  Northern  super- 
stitions) persons  were  cast  by  magical  spells. 
(4)  The  Greek  Slave. 

This  poem  was  the  result  of  a  competition  for 
a  prize  of  $100,  offered  by  the  "Cosmopolitan 
Art  and  Literary  Association,"  (which  had  pur- 
chased Hiram  Powers'  statue,)  "  for  the  best 
Ode  written  on  this  beautiful  creation  of  Ame- 
rican Genius."  The  judges  selected  (says  the 
New  York  Mirror)  wore  "  Messrs.  Bayard  Tay- 
lor, of  the  Tribune  ;  R.  S.  Willis,  of  the  Musical 
World,  and  H.  Fuller,  of  the  Evening  Mirror, 
who  met  at  the  St.  Nicholas  Hotel,  on  Tuesday 
evening,  Oct.  3d,  (1854.)  About  two  hundred 
contributions  were  sent  in,  with  the  writers' 
names  enclosed  in  sealed  envelopes,  with  the 
understanding  that  only  the  name  of  the  win- 
ner should  be  known.  This  condition  was 
strictly  observed ;  and  the  committee,  after 
carefully  reading  them,  and  discussing  the 
merits  of  the  fifteen  or  twont^'  worth  consider- 
ing, unanimously  decided  in  favor  of  the  Ode 
by  Augustine  Duganne." 

(.5)  Ever  be  Happy. 

These  verses,  "  like  the  "  Drunkard's  La- 
ment," wore  written  for  musio,  and  widely  cir- 
culated in  that  form. 

(6)  Autocrat's  Triumph. 

This  jeu  d'eftprit  was  first  printed  during  the 
excitement  growing  out  of  a  threatened  attack 
upon  the  printing-office  of  the  National  Era,  in 


Washington,  (D.  C.,)  by  persons  opposed  to  the 
course  of  that  paper. 

(7)  Drunkard's  Lament. 
This  poem  has  been  extensively  circulated— 
printed  in  almost  every  journal  of  the  country. 
It  was  dedicated,  with  music,  to  "Father  Mat- 
thew," who,  in  a  letter  to  the  author,  remarks, 
that  "  its  circulation  will  be  of  great  benefit  to 
the  holy  cause  of  temperance." 
(8)       Loving  Ballad  to  Brother  Jonathan ." 
Martin  Farquhar  Tupper,  the  worthy  author 
of  "  Proverbial  Philosophy,"  (an  elongation,  but 
no  improvement,  of  old  George  Herbert's  treat- 
ment of  the  same  subject,)  has,  on  several  oc- 
casions, been  pleased  to  patronize  and  encourage 
this  modest  country  of  ours,  in  her  efforts  "  to 
get  along."    Among  other  "flattering  notices" 
was  the  "  Loving  Ballad"  above  mentioned,  a 
few  verses  from  which  are  here  appended— to 
mark  the  gist  of  the  rejoinder  : — 
"  Ho,  Brother!  I'm  a  Britisher, 

A  chip  of  heart  of  oak, 
That  would'nt  warp,  or  swerve,  or  stir, 

From  what  I  thouglu  or  .spoke  : 
And  you  a  blunt  and  honest  man, 

Straightforward,  kind,  and  true  I 
I  tell  you,  Brother  Jonathan, 
That  you're  a  Briton,  too  ! 
**#**#• 
"  God  save  the  Queen"  delights  you  still, 

And  "  British  Grenadiers  ;" 
The  good  old  strains  your  heart-strings  thrill, 

And  hold  you  by  both  ears  : 
And  we— O  hate  us,  if  you  can, 

For  we  are  proud  of  you — 
We  like  you.  Brother  Jonathan, 

And  "  Yankee  Doodle,"  too. 
#        #         #         *         *         »  # 
Time  was — it  was  not  long  ago — 

Your  grandsires  went  with  mine, 
To  battle  traitors,  blow  for  blow, 

For  England's  royal  line  : 
Or  tripped  to  court  to  kiss  Queen  Anne, 

Or  worship  royal  Bess  ; 
And  you  and  I,  good  Jonathan, 
Went  with  them  then,  I  guess. 

There  lived  a  man,  a  man  of  men, 

A  king,  on  fancy's  throne  ; 
We  ne'er  shall  see  his  like  again, 

The  globe  is  all  his  own  : 
And  if  we  claim  him  of  our  clan. 

He  half  belongs  to  you ; 
For  Shakspeare,  happy  Jonathan, 

la  yours,  and  ours,  loo. 
#»        #,*         #  #• 
Add  but  your  stripes  and  golden  stars 

To  our  St.  George's  Cross  : 
And  never  dream  of  mutual  wars, 

Two  dunces'  mutual  loss : 
Let  us  two  bless,  where  others  ban, 

And  love  wlien  others  hate  ; 
And  so,  my  cordial  Jonathan, 
We'll  fit,  I  calculate." 

(9)  Garibaldi. 
Garibaldi,  one  of  the  Triumvirate  of  Rome, 
during  the  Revolution  of  1848,  is  recognised  by 
his  republican  countrymen,  as  "the  Swordof  Ita- 
ly"—and,  if  he  be  not  deceived  into  trusting  the 
Sardinian  government  too  much,  may  yet  rally 
"L'ltalia  Giovane"  to  a  new  struggle  for  lib- 
erty. God  grant  he  may  keep  the  brave  heart  that 
has  made  him  the  horo  of  two  worlds  already. 


344 


TO 

Elijah  Hobart, 

(of  MASSACHUSETTS,) 

AND 

S.  L.  Perkins  and  Paschal  Loomis, 

(of  CONNECTICUT,) 

ARTISTS  AND  FRIENDS, 
®Ij£Sje  Hoems  of  ^og^ooJj 

ARE  INSCRIBED, 

AS  A  MEMORIAL  OF  THE  AUTHOR'S  ESTEEM. 


i 


i 


Poetical  Works. 


fnm%  of  (IBqb$qo5, 


MASSACHUSETTS. 


HE  morn  of  Freedom's  natal  day  once 
more 

In  sunlight  breaketh.    From  the  rocky 
shore 

On  which  the  dark  Atlantic's  waves  break  high, 
To  where  the  pine-trees,  losing  in  the  sky 
Their  feathery  vastness,  mark  far  Oregon ; 
"Where'er  the  glorious  morning-beams  have  shone, — 
The  pseans  of  rejoicing  hosts  arise, 
In  one  glad  anthem,  to  the  cloudless  skies. 
_A11 — all — are  free ! — on  every  hill-top  wave 
The  flags  of  Freedom  !  in  each  mountain  cave 
Her  chorus  echoes  ! 

347 

_  ^  


Duganne, 


A 


POEMS   OF  BOYHOOD. 


List!  methouglit  a  cry 
Of  woe  rose  thrillingly — methought  a  sigli, 


Deep  and  heart-laden,  trembled  on  the  air ! 
Alas !  not  Freedom  greets  us  everywhere  ! 
Within  the  very  garden  of  the  brave, 
Upon  the  blood-bought  soil,  there  kneels — a  slave ! 
His  chains  are  clanking  on  the  Southern  gale, 
And,  mingling  with  the  song  of  Freedom,  comes  his 
wail. 

0  God  !  permit  it  not !  on  thee  we  call ! 
Wilt  thou  not  free  us  from  the  numbing  thrall 
That  binds  the  noble  feelings  which  should  spring 
Spontaneous?      Let  not  the  unclean  thing 
Abide  in  Israel !" 

Turn  we  from  the  theme ; — 
There  is  a  spot  where  Freedom's  morning-beam 
Burst  every  cloud.    My  heart  will  turn  to  thee — 
Thee,  Massachusetts  ! — home  of  Liberty ! 

Land  of  my  birth !  the  Star  which  erewhile  led 
The  pilgrims  to  thy  shores — the  Star  that  shed 
Its  beams  o'er  sundered  chains  and  shattered  crowns — 
That  guided  thee  and  thine  beneath  the  frowns 
Of  sceptred  imbeciles — that  burst  the  night 
Of  Slavery,  and  lit  the  beacon-light 
Of  Freedom, — still  shines  on,  still  sheds  its  beams — 
Not  in  the  fitful  cannon's  lurid  gleams, 

348 


Poetical  Works. 


I'DKMS   OF  llOYllOOl). 


Not  ill  the  wild  wur-tire,  nor  on  tlio 
Of  flashing  banners ; — turn  we,  and  behold 
Its  rays  pervading,  brightening,  softening  all — 
Here  in  the  Temple,  there  in  Learning's  hall. 

Time  rushes  back  !  the  mighty  works  of  ait 
Fade,  like  a  dream,  away ;  like  clouds,  depart 
The  "pomp,  the  pride,  the  pageants"  of  the  day; 
The  busy  life-sounds  die  in  waves  away. 
Each  minute  circling  wider.    All  alone, 
(My  soul  unconscious  of  the  tumult  grown,) 
In  silence  and  in  awe,  I  seem  to  stand 
Upon  the  moaning  ocean's  storm-beat  strand. 
Stillness  is  all  around  me,  save  the  sound 
Of  surging  pine-trees,  or  the  dull  rebound. 
Of  baffled  waves  upon  the  rocky  shore, — 
Perchance  the  distant  and  continuous  roar 
Of  gathering  tempests. 


Kow  sinking  in  the  gulf  that  seems  her  grave, 
Now  rising  on  the  billows  chill  and  dark, 
Lo  !  tremblingly  careens  a  sea-worn  bark  ; 
The  breakers  dash  around  her ;  on  her  lee 
The  cliffs  uprear  their  forms  ;  the  rushing  sea 
Each  moment  threatens  wreck ;  and  sable  night. 
And  stormy  skies,  and  all  the  shapes  that  fright 
The  soul  of  man,  are  round  her ; — yet  she  rides 
In  safety — proudly  stems  the  whirling  tides ; — 


On  the  foamy  wave, — 


349 


QSU^   Duganne.  


POEMS  OF  BOYHOOD. 


Till,  moored  at  last  within  the  sheltering  bay, 
Her  weary  crew  behold  the  welcome  day. 
The  laboring  boat  thro'  stormy  billows  cleaves. 
Where,  on  the  beetling  Rock,  the  surge  upheaves ; 
And,  springing  lightly  on  the  yielding  sod. 
They  consecrate  the  soil — to  Freedom  and  to  Grod. 

High  hearts  were  there — the  aged  and  the  young ; 
Around  the  gray-haired  sire  the  infant  clung  ; 
The  lofty  form  of  manhood,  and  the  fair 
And  shrinking  maiden — all  were  clustered  there ! 
In  lofty  faith — in  hopefulness  and  love, 
They  stood — that  noble  band — until,  above 
The  breakers'  roar  and  tempest's  din,  the  song 
Of  Freedom's  gladness  burst,  and  rolled  along 
The  arching  skies, — while  hill,  and  vale,  and  plain. 
And  every  forest-aisle,  gave  back  an  answering  strain. 

Time  speeds  away !  Beneath  the  rushing  tide 
Of  far-advancing  empire,  falls  the  pride 
Of  those  primeval  woods  that,  echoing,  rang. 
When  loud  and  clear  th'  exulting  pilgrims  sang ; 
And,  with  their  sylvan  homes,  have  vanished,  too, 
The  untamed  race  that  'neath  their  shadows  grew. 
1^0  more  the  red  man  treads  his  hunting-grounds, 
"No  more,  amid  the  hills,  his  war-whoop  sounds : 
Gone,  like  the  woods,  that  were  of  him  a  part, 
Each  blow  that  fell'd  them  struck  the  red  man's  heart. 

35° 


Poetical  Works„ 


1'(ji:m,s  oi-'  ii(»yii()()I). 


Tiluo  [)auses  once  agiiiii!  the  pili;*riiiis  sleep; 
The  hills  they  loved  their  peaceful  ashes  keep ; 
A  mighty  change  has  come  across  the  face 
Of  N'ature :  vainly,  now,  we  seek  to  trace 
The  towering  forests ;  where  the  war-fire  hlazed, 
The  village  church  in  simple  pride  is  raised ; 
And  where  the  waters  slept  in  peace  profound, 
The  noisy  mill-wheel  whirls  its  ceaseless  round  ; 
But  on  the  breeze  a  muttering  is  heard ; 
With  heavy  sounds  the  quiet  air  is  stirred ; 
Wild  battle's  tocsin  breaks  upon  the  ear ; 
And  rolling  drums,  and  sounds  of  strife  and  fear, 
And  shouts,  and  clashing  arms,  proclaim  that  war  is 


Wliat  deeds  were  done  yon  hill  might  soothly  tell, 
Where  he,  the  first,  the  morning-martyr,  fell  ;(^) 
What  deeds  were  done  there  needs  no  gifted  power 
To  bring  to  memory  in  this  sacred  hour ; — 
The  pilgrims'  children  bend  no  servile  knee  ! — 
They  freely  tread  the  soil  their  fathers  left  them  free. 

Old  Massachusetts  !  dear-loved  name  !  how  oft 
The  rude  backwoodsman's  honest  heart  grows  soft 
As  childhood's,  when  across  his  yearning  soul 
The  visions  of  his  happy  boyhood  roll. 
Again  he  treads  thy  hills  ;  again  the  sound 
Of  old,  familiar  voices  breathes  around 


here  ! 


35 


Duganne. 


POEMS  OF  BOYHOOD. 


Like  music  in  a  dream ;  again  he  hears 
The  babbling  brooklet  murmur  in  his  ears, 
As  if  it  called  him  back ;  the  nodding  trees, 
That  rock  so  lightly  in  the  summer  breeze. 
Seem  beck'ning  him  beneath  their  happy  shade ; — 
He  sees  them  all — ^hill,  valley,  forest,  glade ! 
He  hears  each  much-loved  sound ;  the  whippoorwilFs 
Sad,  melancholy  music  deeper  thrills ; 
The  lark's  sweet  voice  swells  near  him,  and  the  hum 
Of  insects,  and  the  many  sounds  that  come. 
So  softly  mingled,  fxom  the  woody  dell, — 
The  song  of  falling  streams, — the  tinkling  bell 
Of  home-returning  flocks ; — he  hears  them  all, — 
Deep  in  his  soul  the  much-loved  accents  fall ; — 
And  when  the  traveller  at  his  humble  door 
Appears,  to  claim  his  shelter  and  his  store. 
His  heart  again  its  happy  boyhood  lives, — 
And,  while,  with  kindly  welcoming,  he  gives 
The  ready  hand,  he  cries,  with  heart  elate, 
"God  bless  ye,  stranger!  how 's  the  Old  Bay  State?" 

The  "  Old  Bay  State  !" — The  ocean  wanderer. 
Whose  callous  heart  naught  else  might  haply  stir, 
Will  fondly  turn  to  thee,  when  Memory,  true 
To  Nature,  brings,  like  life  itself,  to  view. 
Each  long-forgotten  object,  in  the  truth. 
The  beauty,  and  the  freshness  of  its  youth, — 


^Poetical  Works. 


I'OKMS  OK  llOYIIOOl). 


c 


Ere  the  warm  breathings  of  liis  Hie,  h)iii;-  past, 
Were  frozen  to  tliiekest  haze,  l)y  sorrow's  wintry  blast! 

He  sees  them — each  loved  form: — the  old  dark  wood; 
The  rustic  bowers,  so  beautiful,  though  rude  ; 
The  stream  where  oft  he  launched  liis  tiny  boat. 
Upon  its  sparkling  wave  in  pride  to  float, 
And  fancied  that  to  rove  the  distant  main 
"Were  joy — (alas  !  he  '11  ne'er  dream  thus  again ;) 
The  waterfall,  where  oft,  in  childish  glee. 
He  watched  the  waters  leaping  wild  and  free ; 
The  old  farm-house ;  the  temple,  where  the  prayers 
Of  simple  hearts,  untainted  with  the  cares. 
The  strifes,  and  woes  of  life,  went  up, — all  these, 
With  childhood's  very  eyes,  his  spirit  sees ; 
And,  from  the  cold  realities  of  life, 
His  soul  reviews  the  hours  when  childhood's  dreams 
were  rife ! 


We  love  thee,  Massachusetts  !  for  thou  art 
Our  mother,  and  of  our  own  selves  a  part ; 
We  love  the  stern,  unbent,  unbending  race  ^ 
Who  proudly  own  thy  hills  their  dwelling-place ;  I 
Rough  sons  of  toil  are  they — their  lips  untaught  j 
To  check  the  passage  of  their  honest  thought ;  ) 
Untaught  are  they  to  bend  the  stubborn  brow — 
'Tis  to  the  monarch  Mind  alone  they  bow ! 


e 


Duganne, 


POEMS  OF  BOYHOOD. 


God  is  above  them, — Heaven's  smile  is  lent, 
To  teach  their  spirits  Heaven's  joy — content ! 
Their  rural  labors  fill  the  quiet  day, 
And  when  the  summer's  sun  has  passed  away. 
The  cheerful  group,  around  their  simple  meal. 
Thank  God  for  all,  and  what  they  utter,  feel. 
The  toil-knit  limbs,  that,  sinewy  and  lithe. 
Held  the  firm  plough  or  swayed  the  pond'rous  scythe, 
Scattered  the  seed  upon  the  furrowy  plain. 
Or  bound  in  glowing  sheaves  the  golden  grain, — 
Still,  w^ith  the  zeal  that  new  exertion  courts. 
Enlist,  unw^earied,  in  the  evening's  sports ; 
The  merry  jest  goes  round ;  the  ball  is  struck ; 
The  quoit  is  hurled,  or  thrown  the  ringing  duck  ;(^) 
Perchance  his  rustic  flute  the  swain  w^ill  trill. 
Or  voice,  that  shows  more  minstrelsy  than  skill ; 
The  clarinet  is  pitched  an  octave  higher — 
The  violin  is  tuned,  for  Sunday's  choir; — 
And  thus  glides  smoothly  on  the  summer's  eve, 
No  gloom  to  cloud  their  brows — no  care  their  hearts 
to  grieve. 

Thus,  too,  when  wintry  storms  across  the  sky 
j        Eush  swiftly,  pass  their  hours  as  gaily  by : 
I         The  few  light  labors  o'er,  the  village-school 
I        Receives  the  sturdy  youth  beneath  its  rule  ; 
1         The  startling  task  is  conned,  and  conned  again, 
m       Till  some  bright  thought  evolves  the  answer  plain: 


w~j  Poetical  Works. 



Then,  freed  at  last,  the  full-grown  urchins  form  v^f 
In  mimic  battle  'mid  the  driving  storm ; 
The  well-})ressed  missile,  hurled  with  practised  force,  | 
'   Meets  nnmy  a  laughing  visage  in  its  course  ; 

And  reddened  cheeks  and  snow-clad  backs  proclaim 
The  ups  and  doivns  in  this  small  field  of  fame. 


Now,  where  the  cheerful  fire  reflects  the  glow 
Of  fiices  clouded  by  no  trace  of  woe, — 
Bound  by  no  rules  of  cold  and  polished  life, 
Each  heart  with  i^'ature's  truthfulness  is  rife. 
Quick  as  the  fancy  falls  the  blameless  word, 
(For  by  no  carping  critic's  ear  'tis  heard  ;) 
Unknown,  unrecked  of,  fashion's  heartless  mirth, 
Theirs  is  the  gladness  of  the  homestead  hearth. 
The  well-stuffed  arm-chair,  in  the  warmest  side. 
Is  placed  for    G-randsire"  'mid  the  circle  wide; 
The  "oft- told  tale"  some  urchin  begs  to  hear. 
And  wonders  w\\y  the  old  man  drops  a  tear ! — 
Climbs  on  his  knee,  and  waits,  with  anxious  look. 
To  hear  the  story  sad  of  "Bloody  Brook ;"(^) 
Trembles  in  childish  awe  at  Bunker's  tale. 
Or  at  the  name  of  Bennington  grows  pale ; 
"Weeps  at  the  sufferings  of  that  valiant  band 
Who  fought  and  famished  for  their  native  land  ; 
And  (while  with  breathless  awe  his  heart  is  thrill'd) 
Smiles  through  his  tears,  to  hear — his  "grandsire"  was 
not  killed ! 


 — -<-^ 


Duganne. 

POEMS  OF  BOYHOOD. 

]^or  these  alone  their  fireside  sweets  enjoy — 
The  garrulous  old  man,  the  listening  boy; — 
There,  at  the  table  scrupulously  neat. 
The  careful  farmer  pores  his  weekly  sheet ; 
The  mother  plies  her  knitting  cheeringly, 
And  prattles  with  the  prattler  at  her  knee  ; 
The  blushing  damsel,  with  coquettish  grace, 
The  plough-boy's  nimble  fingers  strives  to  trace, 
As  o'er  his  slate  the  pattering  pencil  glides, — 
And  now  subtracts  with  him,  and  now  divides ; 
Till  some  dark  problem  (never  guessed  till  now) 
Springs,  like  Jove's  daughter,  from  a  well-rubbed 
brow. 


Perchance  some  neighbor,  in  the  game  deep-lored, 
Drops  in,  to  challenge  forth  the  checquer-board ; 
The  varied  men  are  ranged  in  order  due — 
A  button  here,  or  barley-corn,  in  lieu 
Of  that  long-lost,  or  this  but  lately  gone. 
Till,  all  prepared,  the  dubious  game  goes  on. 


A 


Thus  glide  the  hours — unless,  perhaps,  a  guest — 
Some  traveler,  from  the  wide  and  wondrous  West, 
Or  storm-tossed  rover  on  the  mighty  main — 
Return' d  to  view  his  much-loved  home  again, — 
A  welcome  seeks  and  finds  beside  the  fire. 
And  deals  his  lore  to  every  heart's  desire. 


Poetical  Works. 

^   .  ^ 

rOI'.MS    Ol''  UOYIIOOl). 

The  youngHtcrs,         dihitod  oyCH,  dniw  iioiir 
Now  stories  of  the  mystic  dee[)  to  lieiir: 
Of  bloody  shark — of  luountaiii  whale — perchance 
Of  phantom  ship,  or  merman's  merry  dance; 
Of  ice-bergs,  water-spouts,  and  marvels  strange 
Those  only  meet  who  on  the  ocean  range ; — 
All  these  are  told — with  more  than  actor's  skill — 
Till  even  the  "grandsire"  vows — "  it  beats  old  Bunker 
IlilL" 

These,  dear-loved  Massachusetts  !  these  are  thine — 
The  joys  that  cluster  round  fair  Freedom's  shrine; 
The  sunny  joys,  that  light  the  care-worn  breast — 
The  quiet  joys  that  yield  the  heart  its  rest: 
These  are  thy  birth-right  and  thy  children's  dower — 
Thy  glory  and  thy  strength,  thy  beauty  and  thy 
power ! 

Mother  of  Freedom !  from  whose  glowing  breast 
Sprang  the  first  nurture  of  the  boundless  West! 
Still,  at  the  thunders  of  thy  battle-hill, 
Iberia's  slaves  with  new  emotions  thrill ; 
Still  do  the  echoings  of  thy  war-cry  float 
Where  rings  the  trumpet  of  the  Suliote ; 
Still,  where  the  ^gean  laves  the  sacred  shore. 
Thy  name  commingles  with  its  ceaseless  roar; 
Still,  where  Bozzaris  mocked  at  tyrant's  thrones. 
Thy  Webster's  voice  o'erleaps  the  bar  of  zones — 

357 


Duganne. 

''^'^^^  .  ^   --^a^g^M 

POKMS  OF  BOYHOOD.  -^W^^ 

That  mighty  voice  which  panophed  the  weak,(^)  ^ 
^       When,  hke  a  clarion,  rang  his  pleadings  for  the  2 
Greek ! 


Siberia  knows  thee — where  the  unconquered  Pole 
Lives  in  the  freedom  of  his  chainless  soul ; 
Where  the  bleak  winds,  in  mockery  of  his  woe, 
Permit  not  even  the  exile's  tears  to  flow, — 
Siberia's  wilds  have  echoed  to  the  name 
Of  that  fair  State,  where  Freedom's  altar-flame 
Blazed  to  the  sky,  the  beacon-light  of  fame. 
And,  mingled  with  the  thought  of  Poland's  fate — 
Mingled  with  his  unquenched,  undying  hate 
Of  Russia's  tyrant,  and  of  Russia's  crime, — 
Swells  the  high  hope  that  lights  all  future  time  : — 
The  hope  that  they  who,  first  of  all  the  world, 
Gave  to  the  Pole  his  glorious  flag,  unfurled,(^) 
May  hail  that  banner,  beaming  from  afar. 
Above  a  rescued  land — above  a  conquered  Czar. 


Avaria  knows  thee,  and  her  despot-king 
Plucks    at    the    lessons    from   thy  breast  that 
spring  \(^) 

The  glorious  seed  that  ripened  in  thy  soil 
Yields  generous  harvest  to  the  stranger's  toil ; 
^  The  deathless  knowledge-tree  thou  gavest  root,  ^ 

Even  in  a  tyrant's  land  has  borne  immortal  fruit.  & 

^i^^S'ey-^    -<rN^^@- 


Poetical  Works. 


('^l/S'^J^  .    

POKMS   OK  IlOYilOOI). 

Old  Massachusetts  !  fiiro  theo  ever  well ! 
Thou  liiist  in  thy  old  hills  a  iiiiglity  spell, 
To  draw  thy  distiuit  children  ;  and  their  hearts — 
Or  be  they  mingling  in  the  crowded  marts 
Of  Europe's  cities,  or  on  Afric's  plains 
Of  burning  sand,  or  'mid  the  crumbling  fanes 
Of  pagan  Asia, — still  will  yearn  for  thee — 
Home  of  their  childhood  !  home  of  Liberty! 
And  shall  the  glorious  Fourth's  effulgent  light 
Behold  them  on  the  Alpine  mountain  height, 
Or  ploughing  'mid  the  waves  of  polar  seas, — 
Still  will  their  anthems  mount  upon  the  breeze ; 
Their  hearts  will  hail  fair  Freedom,  and  the  spot 
Where  Freedom's  soul  abides — where  slaves  are 


Where  stands  the  battle  Hill — the  time-^vorn  Hall  ;(^) 
Where  Freedom  woke  to  life,  and  burst  was  Slavery's 
thrall ! 


Duganne, 


POEMS  OF  BOYHOOD. 


THE  NATIONS, 


HARP  of  young  Freedom  !  whose  far-echoing  wires 
Thrill  to  the  music  of  th'  eternal  choirs ! 
Swift,  at  thy  summons,  from  their  silent  sleep 
Within  my  heart,  the  long-pent  thoughts  will  leap ; 
Mingling  with  mine  own  soul,  each  seraph-note 
Bids  it  in  holiest  numbers  upward  float. 
Now,  in  soft,  silver  accents,  down  the  stream 
Of  Time — like  music  in  a  twilight  dream — 
My  spirit  hears  an  echo  of  the  strain 
That  rose  from  hill  and  vale,  from  wood  and  plain, 
When  the  young  morning-stars  together  sang, 
And  with  a  joyful  shout  the  laughing  mountains 
rang. 


It  breathes  of  Freedom !    Freedom's  joyous  birth 
Lent  its  first  accents  to  the  silent  earth ; 
Taught  the  rude  savage  of  his  viewless  soul, 
And  bade  it  from  his  lips  in  language  roll ; 
Clothed  with  a  mighty  power  the  rushing  throng 
Of  thoughts,  until  his  heart  gushed  forth  in  song. 

   ^ 


Poetical  Works.  . 



Mankind  ^vas  iiiii'S(m1  in  lihci'ty  !  llio  wanii, 
Youni;'  lioai-t  ot*  15cini2;  drew  its  primal  form 
From  Freedom's  mould;  tlie  deep  and  noble  draught 
Of  mountaiu-airs ;  the  leaping  rills,  that  laughed 
In  wantonness  of  joy ;  the  eagle's  flight, 
Piercing,  impetuous,  through  the  walls  of  light; 
The  wild,  deep  forest-voice ;  the  thunder's  tone, — 
Woke  in  man's  emulous  soul  the  music  of  his  own. 


Nor  hush'd  the  strain  !  around  each  mountain  brow 
Thunders  and  swells  th'  exulting  anthem  now; 
Amid  our  vales  the  voiceful  music  thrills — 
Across  our  plains — upon  our  templed  hills  ; 
O'er  our  wild  waters,  where  the  morning-beam 
Wakes,  'mid  the  breakers'  roar,  the  soaring  eagle's 
scream. 

Bird  of  our  land  !  whose  bright,  undazzled  gaze 
Drinks  in  the  fiery  day-star's  burning  rays  ! 
'Now,  as  thy  broadening  pinions  cleave  the  skies, 
Hearest  thou  not  the  exulting  anthem  rise  ? 
Lo  !  Avith  his  wild  eye  sweeping  earth  and  wave. 
Circling,  he  mounts  the  orient  architrave ; 
Amid  the  heavens  he  marks  thy  glorious  flags, 
0  Freedom  !  waving  from  the  mountain-crags  ; 
A  million  meteors,  flashing  in  the  light ; 

A  miUion  voices,  swelling  from  each  height ; 
361 


Duganne. 


POEMS  OF  BOYHOOD. 


A  million  hearts  strained  up  ;  a  nation's  song 


Arising  on  the  breeze  in  accents  strong 
The  voice  of  California's  boundless  woods  ; 
The  surging  swell  of  Mississippi's  floods  ; 
Magara's  deep-toned  chorus,  and  the  roar 


6 


Of  Ocean's  hymn,  along  thy  rocky  shore, 
From  Florida's  far  reef  to  ice-bound  Labrador ! 

'Tis  thine  own  land,  fair  Freedom  !  where  anew 
Thy  phoenix-form  burst  forth  to  mortal  view ! 
From  the  new  earth  upspringing  to  the  skies, 
Here  didst  thou  greet  the  world's  awaking  eyes  ! 
On  the  wild  mountain-breeze  thy  clarion  rang. 
And  forth,  to  arms !  an  answering  nation  sprang. 
Then,  o'er  th'  Atlantic,  at  the  mighty  roll 
Of  Freedom's  Avar-drums,  shrank  each  tyrant's  soul ; 
In  their  dark  caves  the  despots  of  the  earth 
Heard  the  deep  shout  that  told  of  Freedom's  birth ! 
Trembling  they  heard  it,  and  their  golden  thrones 
Shook,  at  the  echoings  of  those  deep  war-tones ; 
Slaves  heard  it,  too ;  beneath  his  iron  thrall, 
Beat  the  stirred  bosom  of  the  wondering  Gaul ; 
Italia's  steel,  within  the  pale  moonlight. 
Glittered,  impatient,  for  th'  avenging  fight; 
1  Hispania's  serfs  forgot  their  servile  chain, 

And  from  their  panting  souls  swelled  forth  an  answer-  v!J 


ing  strain ! 


^  Poetical  Works.  ^^^^^ 

I'OK.MS  Ol"  UdVllOOI). 

Leave  we  llie  IVeedoni-tree,  to  mark,  awliile, 
Where  tlie  dark  upas-growth  of  power  and  guile 
Poisons  the  fountains  of  tlie  olden  lands, 
And  twines  its  leaves  in  soul-enchaining  bands. 
The  Nations  are  around  me !  in  tlieir  might, 
Monarch  and  priest  sweep  on  before  my  sight ; — 
Sweep  on  in  crimson  glory,  o'er  the  wrecks 
Of  truth — o'er  gasping  hearts  and  bending  necks  ! 

I  may  not  now,  with  dulcet  Pleasure's  touch. 
Strike  the  soft  harp  with  tenderness  o'ermuch  ; 
Not  now  the  strains  of  love  shall  wake  its  strings, 
Nor  song  of  dove-eyed  Peace  around  it  flings  ; 
No  whispered  Fancy  in  sweet  music  floats : 
Stern,  truthful  Clio  strikes  the  jarring  notes  ; — 
Across  the  crashing  octave  of  all  time — 
The  world's  sweet  Infancy,  its  Youth,  its  Prime  ! 


Far  in  the  Vista  sinks  my  soul ! — Back !  back  ! 
Where  the  invisible  ages  leave  no  track  ! 
Back,  where  from  Babel's  gates  outpoured  her 
crowds  ; 

Back,  where   old   Baalbek's   temples   smote  the 
clouds  ; 

Back,  to  bright  Nineveh — to  Tadmor's  walls. 
The  shrines  of  Thebes,   and  Memphis'  swarming 
halls. 


-^^^^  Duganne. 


POEMS  OF  BOYHOOD. 


Forth  to  the  day  once  more — the  Present's  day ! 
Phantom-like  flit  the  shrines  and  thrones  away ; 
Behold  !  upon  the  desert's  burning  heaps, 
Where  round  yon  fallen  tower  the  adder  creeps ; 
Behold  !  amid  that  temple's  ruined  pride — 
O'er  the  crushed  altar — where  the  jackals  glide  ; 
Mark  ye  where  once  a  woman's  daring  hand 
Swept  the  invading  despot  from  her  land, — (^) 
There  the  green  lizard  creeps,  the  scorpion  crawls, 
Around  the  levelled  shrines,  the  shivered  walls  ; 
Behold !  where  Tyoth's  gaze  explored  the  skies,(^) 
The  wandering  nomad's  humble  tents  arise ; 
And  where  the  sunbeam  Memnon's  strain  awoke(^'^) 
The  hemlock's  deadly  roots  a  desert  fountain  choke. 

And  this  the  lesson — that  the  might  of  all 
That  man  from  vast  Creation's  fields  can  call ; — 
All  that  he  proudly  rears — must  pass  away  ! 
The  monarch  of  Creation  is  Decay ! 

Egypt !  the  Womb  and  Tomb  of  mightiest  lore ! 
Egypt !  whose  giant  guardians,  gazing  o'er 
Thy  desert  plains,  bring  back  the  buried  Past, 
With  all  its  awful  shadows  round  it  cast ! — 
Say,  did  thy  Pharaohs  from  their  cerements  leap. 
When  Gaul's  deep  thunder  broke  upon  their  sleep  ? 
Thro'  the  thick-gathered  mists  of  w^ithered  years, 
Saw  they  the  Corsican's  embattled  spears? 

364 


MS 


Poetical  Works. 


rOKMS  Oh"  IIOVIIOOK. 

Ah!  vjiiii  wvvc  tliundei-H  of  united  zohch — 
Vain  tlu3  workl-eclioin^  requiem  of  thrones — 
To  burst  the  sk^ep  of  deatli  that  over  all 
Thy  Memory  and  thy  Might  hangs  like  a  funeral 
pall ! 

Rome !  thou  vast  shade  of  what  was  once  a  world, 
Down  from  thy  mighty  throne  in  madness  hurled ! — 
Still  doth  thy  giant  heart  convulsive  start, 
Like  some  huge  corpse  beneath  the  surgeon's  art ; 
Still,  'mid  the  mould  of  his  self-hollowed  grave. 
Throbs,   and  leaps  up,   and  pants,  th'  awaking 
slave ! — 

And,  like  the  fiery  mountain's  deep-drawn  breath. 
Ere,  with  a  mighty  heave,  it  vomits  death, — 
In  thy  swelled  soul  have  sunk   thy  w^oes  and 
shames ; — 

Shall  they  not  burst,  O  Rome!  burst  forth  in  Free- 
dom's flames? 

Ay!  like  a  lava  torrent — o'er  the  fanes 
And  palaces  of  those  who  forged  thy  chains ! 
Ay !  like  a  lava-torrent,  sw^eeping  down 
Cross,  crook,   and  mitre,  —  sceptre,   throne,  and 
crown  ! — 

Till,  from  the  burning  fields,  to  greet  the  skies. 
Freedom's  new  Coliseum  o'er  buried  thrones  shall 


rise!(")  I 

363  (\ 


Duganne. 


POEMS  OF  BOYHOOD. 


Wliere  is  Germania  ? — from  their  slumbers  deep, 
Will  not  thy  buried  sires  start  forth  to  weep  ? 
Liveth  the  spirit  of  old  Herrmann  now, 
When  the  stiff  German  necks  in  bondage  bow? — 
Bondage !  a  deadlier  bondage,  than  the  yoke 
Of  Roman  power  thy  bold  Arminius  broke. (^^^ 
Kot  now  with  iron  chains  thy  tyrants  bind : 
Their  manacles  enwreath  th'  awaking  mind ; 
Their  yoke  is  on  the  soul,  to  bind  it  down, 
Till  its  dull  gaze  is  level  with  a  crown. 
In  thy  deep  heart,  0  Germany !  whose  life 
With  god-like  aspirations  still  is  rife, — 
Whose  heaven-encircling  vision  breaks  the  clouds 
Of  Time,  and  dazzles  Ages  from  their  shrouds ; 
In  thy  deep  heart,  0,  lives  there  not  a  gleam, 
Of  German  light,  in  radiance  now  to  beam  ? — 
Then,  from  thy  long-bowed  soul  the  fetters  shake ! 
From  thy  long  sleep  of  death  indignant  wake  ! 
Cast  on  thine  Herrmann's  shield  of  Truth  and  Right! 
Shout  Winkelried's  loud  summons  to  the  fight ! — 
"  Make  way  for  Liberty!"  and  burst  the  slavish  night! 

Spain !  must  thy  wrongs  through  all  thy  being  last  ? 
Spain  !  are  thy  golden  days  forever  passed? 
Shall  not  a  Cid  spring  up,0^)  to  lead  thee  on, 
Till  chains  are  snapped  and  Freedom's  peace  is  won  ? 
Shall  not  some  new  Pelayo's  war-cry  swell  ?(") 
Some  new  Alphonso  rise,  (^^)  thy  foes  to  quell? 


Poetical  Works. 


'OKMS    Ol'  HOYIlOOl). 


Not  till  the  lust  (jrowiK'd  robber  bites  the  dust; 
Not  till  is  sleiiinied  the  tide  of  priestly  lust; 
Not  till  the  eowl  and  ermine  erowu  the  [)ile 
Of  Freedom's  ultar-otfering, — shall  her  smile 
Shine  forth  on  thee,  Ilispania  !  not  till  then, 
The  knife  shall  seek  its  sheath,  and  peace  walk  forth 
again ! 

England  !  proud  despot  of  the  chainless  sea — 
Long  have  the  palsied  nations  bent  to  thee ; 
England !  whose  banners  on  each  ocean  float ; 
Whose  language,  from  the  cannon's  brazen  throat 
Around  the  wide  earth  crashing,  speaks  thy  might, 
And   drowns    the    pleading  voice  of  ruth  and 
right,— 

Lo !  thou  art  highest  in  the  mount  of  fame  ! 
Nations  have  paled  and  perished  at  thy  name ! 
Still  on  thy  temples  beams  the  fadeless  crown 
Of  thy  unperishing  and  old  renown  ; 
Still  on  thy  proud  escutcheon  brightly  beam 
The  warrior's  boast,  the  patriot's  glowing  theme : 
Forth  from  their  glorious  graves,  a  mighty  throng, 
Pour  thy  old  dauntless  chivalry  along ; — 
Up,  from  the  burning  plains  of  Palestine ; 
Up,  from  the  borders  of  the  rushing  Ehine ; 
Up,  from  the  banks  of  Guadalquivir's  tide. 
From  Gaul's  broad  battle-graves,  and  from  the  ocean 
wide. 

367 


^MlQSL^  Duganne.   ^^^^ 


POEMS  OF  BOYHOOD. 


A  grand  and  proud  array!  the  iron  race 
Who  gave  thee  'mid  the  mightiest  a  place. 
Yet  vain  their  glorious  and  far-spreading  fame ; 
Vain  is  the  memory  of  each  valiant  name ; 
Vain  are  thy  trophies  and  thy  laurel- wreath, 
To  shield  thee,  England  !  from  dishonor's  death! 
The  memory  of  thy  tyrant  lust  obscures 
The  brightness  of  a  thousand  Agincourts ; 
Thy  grasping  tyranny,  thy  broken  trust. 
Will  shroud  a  thousand  Cressys  in  the  dust ! 
Ireland's  fire-blasted  fields,  and  ruined  hearths, 
Shall  dim  the  lustre  of  thy  triumph-paths ; 
India's  crushed  millions,  in  a  wailing  cry, 
From  many  a  crimson  death-field  rising  high, 
Shall    drown    the    trumpet -note    that  Victory 
blew 

O'er   Mle's    ensanguined   wave,    or  deathful  Wa- 
terloo. 

Poland  !  thou  art  not  fall'n  !  thy  tyrants'  wrong. 
Heaped  round  thee,  shall  become  an  segis  strong, 
To   shelter   thee  when    beats  the    storm  once 
more ; 

Poland !  thine  iron  ordeal  shall  be  o'er. 
By  the  unnumbered  death-cries  that  arose 
Where  the  bright  Vistula  in  stillness  flows  ! 
By  all  the  woes  of  Warsaw's  martyr'd  band, 
Who  last  for  Freedom  raised  the  battle-brand ! 

368 


'■^^^iQjlj^^  ^Poetical  Works.  ^ 


C 

c 


I'OKMS   <)1'  noYIKKII). 


By  glorious  Sobicski's  deatblcBs  name 
And  by  tbose  dear  and  patriot  souIh  wbo  came 
To  our  new  freedom-feast — Kosciusko  brave, 
And  HE  wbo  found  witb  freedom  but  a  grave  !(^^) 
By  tbese,  and  by  tbe  uncounted  pray'rs  tbat  rise, 
Unceasingly,  to  cbill  Siberia's  skies ! — 
Poland  sball  live — sball  rise  !    0  Migbty  God  ! 
Hear  tbou  tbose  soul-sent  pray'rs,  and  break  tbe 
oppressor's  rod ! 


A  dark  and  ominous  cloud  is  in  tbe  Nortb ; 
From  Eussia's  wastes  a  propbet-voice  goes  fortb  ! — 
Goes  fortb  to  warn  old  Europe — but  in  vain  ! 
Yet  wbat  bas  been  may,  baply,  be  again  ! 
Time  was,  wben,  o'er  tbe  necks  of  nations  tranc'd 
In  slavery,  tbe  Assyrian's  cbarger  pranc'd  ;(^^) 
Time  was,  wben  be  wbo  overran  one  world 
Wept  tbat  bis  conquering  banner  must  be  furled ; 
Time  was,  wben  on  tbe  buge  old  Alpine  rock 
Tbe  Cartbaginian's  tbunders  spent  tbeir  sbock  ; 
Time  was,  wben  Roma's  matricidal  son 
Leaped  madly  o'er  bis  country's  Rubicon  ; — 
And  wbere  is  old  Assyria  ?  wbere  is  Greece  ?  ! 
Say,  did  tbe  sun  of  Carthage  set  in  peace  ?  j 
Wbere  is  old  Rome  ?    0  Nations  !  know  ye  tbis  ! —  ) 
Tbey  lived  —  tbey  rose  —  tbey  fell!    Time  was — 

Time  is  !  ^ 
369  T 


Duganne. 


POEMS  OP  BOYHOOD. 


And  such  may  be  thy  fate,  0  Europe !  thus, 
When  swarming  from  his  deserts  pours  the  Russ, 
Thine  ears  may  hear,  too  late,  the  iron  tread 
Of  Asia's  hordes  above  thy  countless  dead ! 
Ye  saw  when  Gaul's  defenceless  capital 
Heard  on  her  parapet  the  Ukraine-call ; 
Ye  saw  when,  o'er  the  ravaged  fields  of  France, 
Gleamed  in  the  reddened  sky  the  Cossack's  lance, — 
And  ye  may  mark,  from  Moscow's  crimson  fire, 
A  flame  enwreath  your  homes  in  one  red  funeral-pyre ! 

Back  to  our  Freedom-home  ! — our  souls  again 
Join  in  a  happy  nation's  triumph-strain  ! 
Our  throbbing  hearts,  in  cadence         the  sound 
Of  trump,  and  drum,  and  cannon  booming  round  ! — 
Our  soaring  spirits,  on  the  golden  air. 
Springing  to  plant  a  star-lit  banner  there  ! 
J oining  the  anthem,  gush  our  swelling-hearts, — 
Freedom  her  glorious  life  to  every  soul  imparts ! 

O  God !  what  mockery  is  this  to  him, 
Whose  eyes  with  death's  approaching  vail  are  dim — 
The  restless  sufferer,  on  whose  burning  brain 
Crashes  the  torture  of  each  martial  strain  ; — 
The  fettered  wretch,  within  the  dungeon  gloom, 
Hears  the  glad  echo  round  his  living  tomb — 
Hears  the  shrill  trump  arising  wild  and  high. 
And  clanks  his  chains,  in  hopeless  agony! 
370 


Poetical  Works. 

   ^--^i 

POKMH  OK  BOYHOOD.  ( 

The  Slave,  too,  hears  it — 'neath  a  cloudless  sky, 
lie  gazes  round — bright  banners  meet  his  eye ! 
He  listens — clarion  notes,  upon  the  air. 
Speak  to  his  bosom — Liberty  is  there  ! 
Shout,  shout  aloud !  't  is  Freedom's  birth-day !  — 
shout ! 

"Wliat !  mute  ?  the  lash  shall  bring  thy  plaudits  out ! 
The  lash  shall  make  thee  hail  our  Freedom's  name — 
Freedom  and  Justice  twined  —  Columbia's  lasting 
fame. 

The  first,  faint  streaks  of  Morning's  mellowed  light 
Are  checkering  the  sky — the  shades  of  l^ight 
Are  fading  into  sunlight — hill  and  vale 
In  laughing  loveliness  the  day-star  hail ; — 
A  stately  form  has  reached  yon  mountain-steep, 
Around  whose  base  the  circling  waters  leap ; 
His  arm  is  raised  to  heaven — his  bright  black  eye 
Fixed  sorrowingly  upon  the  changing  sky ; — 
And  now  it  falls — across  the  wide-spread  plain. 
The  fields  all  bending  with  their  shining  grain. 
The  waving  w^oods  that  rock  in  living  green. 
The  streams  that  leap  and  flash  in  silvery  sheen, — 
In  one  wide,  sw^eeping  glance,  his  spirit  views  the 
scene. 

Hark !  from  the  valleys ; — 'tis  the  signal-gun — 
Freedom,  rejoicing,  hails  her  natal  sun ; 


Duganne. 

POEMS  OF  BOYHOOD. 

Bright  swords  are  flashing  back  the  morning-beam; 
Star-woven  banners  from  each  hill-top  stream. 
Child  of  a  murdered  race !  swells  now  thy  soul, 
Responsive  to  the  strains  that  round  thee  roll  ? 
Leapeth  thy  heart  when  Freedom's  shouts  arise- 
When  Freedom's  meteor  banners  kiss  the  skies  ? 
Shout  forth  thy  gladness,  red  man !  let  thy  voice 
With  Freedom's  accents  blend !  with  Freedom's  sons 
rejoice ! 

His  voice  is  raised — above  the  trumpet-tone, 
The  drum-beat,  and  the  cannon-peal ; — alone, 
Above  the  shout  of  Freedom's  joy  that  tells, 
In  its  own  strength  upon  the  breeze  it  swells. 
But  not  with  joy!  a  curse — a  gasping  prayer 
For  swift  and  sure  revenge  !    With  bosom  bare. 
With  lifted  eyes  and  arms,  behold  him  stand — 
The  avenging  curse  invoking  on  our  land  ! 
A  curse  upon  the  white  man's  tyrant  race — 
A  curse  upon  his  home  and  dweUing-place — 
A  curse  upon  his  children  and  his  land, — 
War,  pestilence,  and  blight — the  battle  and  the  brand ! 

That  curse  is  ringing  still !  and  now,  again. 
Comes  the  low  murmur  of  the  Slave's  ^^Amen!" 
Will  ye  not  hear  it — ^ye,  whose  voices  guide 
Our  counsels  and  our  country — ere  the  tide 
Of  ruin  sweep  ye  from  your  pitch  of  pride  ? 
37* 


Poetical  Works.  ^  / 



I'OIO.MH  OK  HOYIIOOJ).  ^ 

Wlioii  the  Old  "World  is  riven,  and  despot-swiiy 
O'er  tlie  rent  states  shall  hold  its  erushing  way ; 
When  the  dark  IvUHsian's  vast  and  pall-like  power 
O'er  Europe's  prostrate  monarchies  shall  lower ; 
When  Asia's  hordes  upon  the  tide  of  war, 
Shall  bear  the  fetters  of  the  conquering  Czar ; — 
What  hope  may  cheer  the  bosoms  of  the  free  ? 
Where   shall  the  IN'ations  look,  Columbia!  but  to 

TIIEE  ? 

Here — in  the  mighty  West,  my  country — here, 
Freedom  to  her  omnipotent  God  may  rear 
Her  proudest  temple !    Here,  in  grandeur  nurs'd, 
Till  on  the  world  His  word  shall  bid  her  burst. 
Let  Freedom's  soul  abide !    And  when  the  cloud 
Of  tyrant-power  the  Nations  shall  enshroud  ; 
And  when  the  measure  of  their  servile  woes 
The  cup  of  Retribution  overflows  ; — 
Forth  on  the  world  once  more  her  form  shall  beam. 
To  change  the  tide  of  grief  to  love's  illumined 
stream  ! 

And  ye  around  me,  w^hom  no  despot  binds — 
Rich  in  the  freedom  of  your  youthful  minds — 
The  time  may  come  when  your  firm  hearts  shall  bar 
The  dreadful  progress  of  the  tyrant's  car — 
The  tyrant  Ignorance,  whose  iron  hand 
The  free  and  generous  may  alone  withstand ; 


(3^ 


Duganne. 

 .   -^c^^ 


POEMS  OF  BOYHOOD. 


The  time  may  come  when  yonder  column'd  hill 
•    In  Memory's  heart  alone  a  place  shall  fill ; 
The  time  will  come  when  ye,  who  hail  this  day, 
Even  like  its  sunlight  shall  have  passed  away ; 
But,  onward  to  the  fight — the  glorious  strife  ! 
Buckle  your  armor  fi^r  the  field  of  Life  ! 
Let  your  awakening  souls,  sustained  in  God, 
Cast  the  enlightening  spirit-food  abroad ; 
Quafi"  the  rich  draught  from  Learning's  mighty 
fount. 

And  on  the  wings  of  Knowledge  heavenward 
mount ! 

Then  shall  the  trumpet  of  the  glorious  West 
Startle  the  world  from  slavery's  sluggish  rest ; 
And,  like  old  Jericho,  at  the  mighty  sound. 
The  conquered  towers  of  Crime  shall  crumble  to  the 
ground ! 


Poetical  Works. 


POKMS  OF  BOYHOOD. 


^^FRANGAS    NGN  FLECTES." 


I  WOULD  not  weep,  nor  breathe  a  sigh, 
Though  all  the  world  should  frown  on  me ; 
I  'd  boldly  stem  the  wintry  sea, 
And  tempest  high. 

I  would  not  teach  my  stubborn  neck 
To  bend  beneath  a  great  one's  frown, 
^or  bid  mine  own  free  soul  bow  down 
At  monarch's  beck. 

"No  servile  strain  I  'd  teach  my  tongue, 
To  win  the  ear  of  mighty  ones  ; 
WTiate'er  within  my  spirit  burns 
High  up  is  flung. 

And  should  they  smile — as  smile  they  may — 
Should  I  their  scorn  and  hatred  feel — 
I  'd  wrap  my  tortured  heart  in  steel : 
Proud,  careless,  gay! 

Ay !  though  the  power  of  earthly  wo 
Should  crush  my  frame  in  agony. 
My  SOUL,  unbent,  proud,  stern,  and  free, 
Would  scorn  the  blow! 

375 

 —  


T 


Duganne. 



5=^ 


POEMS   OF  BOYHOOD. 


But  if  a  soft,  sweet  voice  should  call ; 
A  kindly  heart  should  throb  with  mine ; 
A  gentle  spirit  round  me  twine, — 
Then,  tears  might  fall. 

The  tears  that  sorrow  ne'er  could  wring, 
The  sighs  that  pain  might  waken  not — 
The  plaint  that  hate  and  scorn  ne'er  brought — 
Love's  look  would  bring ! 


BLUE  EYES. 


THOSE  eyes  of  blue !  those  eyes  of  blue  I 
How  many  a  beaming  glance  I  knew, 
Ere  sorrow's  cloud  came  o'er  me; 
Ah,  me !  methinks  they  darker  grew, 
As  Fortune's  favors  fled  before  me. 

Those  eyes  of  blue !  those  eyes  of  blue ! 
They 've  lost  their  mild,  cerulean  hue — 
They 've  lost  their  beaming  glances ; 
Ah,  me !  they  darkly  gleam, — adieu ! 
False  eyes,  that  change  when  gloom  advances. 


Poetical  Works. 

POKMS  01'  BOYUOOD. 


BELLS. 


YE  melancholy  hells! 
Ye  know  not  why  ye  're  ringing — 
See  not  the  tear-drops  springing, 
From  sorrows  that  ye  bring  to  mind, 
Ye  melancholy  bells ! 

Oh !  doleful  is  your  sound ! 
Your  clear  and  plaintive  knelling 
Some  sorrow-tale  is  telling  ; 
Ye  're  breaking  now  the  hopes  that  twined 
A  mourner's  heart-strings  round. 

And  ye  will  ring  again  ! 
And  ye  will  ring  to-morrow ! 
Yet  not  in  notes  of  sorrow ; 
But  with  a  joyful  wedding-peal 

Oh !  ye  will  tremble  then. 

And  thus  ye  will  ring  on  ! — 
To-day  in  tones  of  sadness ; 
To-morrow,  peals  of  gladness ; — 
Ye  '11  sound  them  both,  yet  never  feel 

A  thrill  of  either  one. 


Duganne. 

POEMS  OF  BOYHOOD. 

Ye  ever-changing  bells ! 
Oil !  many  ye  resemble, 
Who  ever  throb  and  tremble, 
Yet  never  know  what  moves  them  so, — 
Ye  ever-changing  bells  ! 


EVENING. 


E  VENINCi  has  come !  the  distant  hills  grow  dim 
In  lengthened  shadows,  and  the  vesper-hymn 
Of  flute-voiced  warblers  falls  upon  mine  ear 
In  thrilling  melody ; — yet,  lingering  here, 
I  meditate.    The  setting  sun's  last  ray 

Falls  mildly-brilliant  over  wood  and  stream ; 
'Tis  gone !  but  mark  the  day-god's  golden  way. 

Can  fair  Italia's  boasted  sunsets  beam 
With  richer  glories  ?    All  the  western  sky 

Seems  lit  by  flame !  with  living  fire  each  cloud 
Is  tipped !  the  glorious  brilliancy 

Of  Iris  shines  in  all,  and  lights  the  proud, 
Majestic  city's  domes  that  rise  below, 
Till  spire  and  turret  high  with  answering  splendor  glow. 


6 


THE   FALLING  STAR. 


0  WHITHER,  now,  thou  wandering  star ! 

Across  the  heavens  gleaming? — 
From  all  thy  sister-lights  afar 

Thine  errant  soul  is  streaming. 

Thy  meteor-form  ne'er  met  my  gaze, 

Amid  the  studded  heaven, 
Until  I  marked  thy  flitting  rays 

Adown  the  azure  driven. 

Ah,  me  !  a  fitting  emblem  thou, 
O  star !  so  bright  and  fleeting ! 

Of  souls  that  shed  a  parting  glow 
When  FIRST  our  spirits  greeting. 

The  brightest  and  the  holiest — 
Who  all  our  gloom  might  banish — 


Alas  !  we  know  not  they  exist, 
Until  they  gleam — to  vanish. 


Duganne. 


POEMS  OF  BOYHOOD. 


HEART-SEEKING. 


SADLY,  in  the  city's  crowd, 
Wanders  the  stranger  child ; 
'Mid  the  people's  murmurs  loud, 
Lonely  and  wild. 

Swiftly  by,  the  people  pass, 
Jostle  the  weeping  boy — 
In  the  hurried,  heartless  mass, 
Searching  for  joy. 

Sadly  prays  the  sobbing  child. 

Shelter  and  love  to  gain — 
Plaintively,  in  accents  mild  ; — 
All,  all  in  vain ! 

Tremblingly  a  music-voice 

Greeteth  his  listening  ear — 
Bidding  his  young  heart  rejoice. 
Soothing  his  fear. 

Lo  !  the  maiden's  lily  hands 

Twine  his  dark,  wavy  hair ; 
Weaving  glossy  raven  bands 


On  his  brow  fair. 


Poetical  Works. 

POKM.S  OK  UOVlIOOl). 

Sinking  on  the  maiden's  breast, 

Smiles  lie  his  soul  away — 
Brightly  as  when  in  the  "West 
Sinks  the  sun's  ray. 

But  an  angel  form  remains, 

Viewless  beside  the  maid — 
Whispers  her  in  music  strains, 
'Mid  twilight  shade. 


HEART  SENSES, 


IT  met  me — that  cold  and  withering  look — 

Yet  my  brow  was  still  unclouded ; 
Not  a  moment  the  smile  my  lip  forsook, 
And  no  gloom  mine  eyes  enshrouded. 
My  song  rang  forth,  and  my  laugh  rose  high  ; 
But  I  saw  that  look  with  my  heart's  own  eye. 

It  fell  from  thy  lips — that  chilling  word — 
When  my  soul  with  joy  was  teeming ; 
And  you  dreamed  not  that  by  me 't  was  heard, 
For  mine  eye  was  bright  and  beaming. 
You  heard  no  sigh,  and  you  saw  no  tear, — 
But  that  cold  word  reached  my  heart's  own  ear. 

381 


Duganne. 


I'OEMS  OF  BOYHOOD. 


MIDNIGHT. 


MIBNIGrST  upon  the  waters  !  Heaven  is  gemm'd 
With  all  the  brilliant  garniture  of  night ; 
And  the  waves  dance,  in  liquid  radiance  bright, 
As  though  the  rays  from  Peris'  wings  reflected 
Flash' d  through  the  crystal  element,  and  stream' d 
Upon  its  surface  in  effulgent  light. 
My  boat  glides  onward,  silently — directed 
By  the  invisible  spirits  of  air,  who  throng 
The  viewless  space,  and  mildly,  sweetly  fan 
With  soft  and  beautiful  wings  the  brow  of  man. 
The  moon  upon  the  lake  her  rays  is  flinging, 
And  calmly  greets  me  as  I  glide  along. 

And  seek  with  curious  gaze  her  face  to  scan ; 
The  music  of  the  waterfall  is  ringing. 

Mellowed  by  distance  in  my  listening  ear — 
As 't  were  the  warble  of  some  wood-nymph  fair, 
Eising  in  notes  melodious  on  the  air. 
All  else  is  hush'd !  save  when,  in  whispers  stealing, 
A  low  and  mystic  minstrelsy  I  hear — 

Like  earthly  echoes  of  some  seraph's  pray'r — 
That  soothes  the  soul  to  calm  and  holy  feeling. 


Poetical  Works. 


1*01CMH  OF  UOVUOOU. 


SONG   OF  LIFE. 


SO  MOTE  it  be! 
If  sorrow  press  our  sinking  souls — 
If  misery's  tempest  o'er  us  rolls, — 
If  wrecked  we  are  on  Fortune's  shoals, — 

So  mote  it  be ! 
This  merry  strain  the  sexton  trolls, 

And  so  troll  we. 

So  mote  it  be ! 
Is  friendship  false?  is  love  betrayed? 
Our  being's  sunshine  turned  to  shade? 
Do  all  our  joys  but  bloom  to  fade  ? — 

So  mote  it  be ! 
The  woe  upon  our  hearts  is  laid : 

"We  cannot  flee. 

So  mote  it  be ! 
Shall  death,  in  fearful  guise,  draw  near, 
And  turn  our  brightest  hopes  to  fear, 
And  friends  shall  o'er  us  shed  no  tear, — 

So  mote  it  be ! 
Through  life  our  souls  are  wearied  here — 

In  death  are  free. 
383 


Duganne. 


POEMS   OF  BOYHOOD. 

So  mote  it  be ! 
If  there  in  truth  should  be  a  heaven, 
If  there  our  sins  are  all  forgiven, 
If  there  our  hearts  no  more  are  riven 

So  mote  it  be ! 
To  port,  at  last,  we  shall  be  driven. 
From  life's  rough  sea. 


AFTER   A  THUNDER-STORM. 


SOFT  blows  the  freshen'd  air!  the  gloomy  clouds 
That  hung  above  the  misty  mount  are  breaking ; 
The  birds  are  bursting  from  their  leafy  shrouds, 
And  hill  and  vale  with  minstrelsy  are  waking. 
With  gushing  rivulets  sweet  music  making. 
Earth  breathes  again  !  for  she  has  cast  away 
The  nightmare  Tempest,  and  in  sunlight  basks, 
To  drink  its  warmth,  while  kindly  ITature  tasks 
Her  art,  to  bring,  beneath  her  gentle  sway. 

Our  late-complaining  souls  to  smile  in  gladness. 
Thus,  gladd'ning  every  bosom  with  his  rays. 
And  bidding  every  tongue  to  shout  his  praise. 
And  drying  ITature's  tear-drops  in  his  blaze. 

The  happy  Sun  can  wake  mankind  from  sadness. 


Poetical  Works. 


SLEEP-LOVE. 


0 


WHERE  is  the  maid  with  dark-brown  tresses, 
Ever  with  me  in  my  dreams  ? — 

Sweetly  her  form  my  spirit  blesses, 
Greets  my  heart  in  sunny  gleams. 

In  my  lone  soul  her  voice  is  thrilling, 

Like  an  angel's  whispering ; 
Softly  it  Cometh — passion  stilling — 

Dove-like,  "  healing  on  its  wing." 

Darkly,  and  yet  in  love,  are  bending 

Over  me  those  angel  eyes ; 
Love  and  sorrowing  joy  are  blending 

In  their  holy  mysteries. 

Clasp  me  within  thine  arms  my  love,  now ; 

Is  it  all  a  dream — a  dream  ? 
Angels !  gaze  ye  from  above,  now ! 


Ye  my  love's  own  sister  seem. 


Duganne. 


POEMS  OF  BOYHOOD. 


TOMB-FLOWERS. 


WITAT  boots  it  to  the  dead— 
The  marble  mausoleum's  sculptured  woe, 
That  mocks  the  cold  and  silent  one  below — 
The  labored  epitaph — chiselled  praise 
That  greets  so  chillingly  the  mourner's  gaze — 

What  boots  it  to  the  dead  ? 

What  recks  the  broken  heart 
Of  all  the  tinsel  pride,  the  splendor  bright, 
That  falls  like  ice  upon  the  mourner's  sight? 
Of  all  the  pomp,  the  glitter,  and  the  glare. 
Of  life's  brief  pleasures,  fanciful  as  fair, 

Wliat  recks  the  broken  heart  ? 

Oh  !  rear  no  massy  tomb ! 
But  let  the  friends — the  loving  ones — strew  flowers ! 
The  roses  that  I  loved  in  life's  sad  hours ; 
And  let  their  tears,  if,  haply,  tears  be  shed, 
Bedew  the  roses  on  my  lowly  bed — 

But  rear  no  massy  tomb  ! 


.J 


Poetical  Works. 


rOKMS  OK  IIOYIIOOI). 


Oh  !  (lock  my  grave  with  flowers ! 
The  cold,  chirk  stone  would  weigh  my  spirit  down ; 
'T would  sink  like  Love  beneath  Misfortune's  frown  ; 
But  flowers — sweet  flowers — deep-rooted  in  my  heart, 
Would  have  their  life  in  me,  and  be  of  me  a  part. 
Then  deck  my  grave  with  flowers ! 


SUMMER-MUSINGS, 


SUWLIGrJIT  HYomd  me  danceth!  shadows  creep 
Across  my  sight,  and  vanish;  balmy  airs 
Float  up  and  down  around  me ;  gentle  flowers, 
Green,  waving  trees,  and  golden-plumaged  birds, 
Painted  and  fanciful  butterflies,  and  bees, 
Buzzing  and  circling  round ; — all  summer  life ! 
All  that  can  make  the  forest  beautiful — 
All  that  may  speak  of  joy — is  round  me  now. 
There  is  a  little  brooklet  at  my  feet, 
Purling  and  whispering,  as  if  its  breast 
Labored  with  some  huge  secret,  which  it  fain 
Would  tell  to  me.    And  there,  beneath  the  bank 
All  green  and  mossy,  where  the  willows  hang 
Li  beautiful  festoons — within  that  nook —  I 
The  silver-pinioned  troutling  glideth  slow.  c§ 




;9= 


Duganne, 


POEMS  OF  BOYHOOD. 


Yonder,  upon  a  fall'n  and  mossy  oak, 
That  once  in  majesty  o'ertopped  the  scene, 
Creepeth  a  lazy  caterpillar,  with  a  dull 
And  measured  listlessness.    Perchance,  as  now 
With  slow,  monotonous  march,  he  crawleth  on, 
He  dreameth  with  a  trusting  hopefulness 
Of  light  and  beauty  in  his  crysalis-birth  ; 
And  so  plods  perseveringly  along, 
Sustained  and  strengthened. 

May  I  learn  from  him 
To  bear  this  caterpillar  load  of  life. 
Until  from  heaven  shall  fall  my  spirit-wings  ! 


THE  SWORD  OF  WASHINGTON, 


AND   FRANKLIN'S  STAFF. 


NOT  Si8  a  battle-gift. 

We  grasp  our  chieftain's  sword, — 
N'ot  in  the  combat  to  uplift. 
To  light  the  battle's  stormy  rift. 

Where  Freedom's  blood  is  poured. 
We  hail  thee,  O  thou  warrior-blade ! 

Of  brighter  days  the  sign — 
Like  that  which  armed  the  Gallic  maid. 
Whose  hand  the  rushing  foeman  stayed, 

With  courage  all  divine. 
388 


Poetical  Works. 


roKMH  OF  HOYIlOOl). 


Sword  of  the  mighty  Doad, 

Thy  light  shall  guard  our  land 
And,  even  as  the  meteor  dread, 
That  flashes  round  the  Cherub's  head. 

Shall  blast  each  foeman's  hand. 
Sword  !  thou  art  Freedom's  chosen  guest. 

In  her  own  festal  hall ; 
At  her  right  hand,  in  triumph,  rest ; 
Thy  point  at  each  dark  traitor's  breast, 

Who  would  his  land  enthrall. 


Hail !  falchion  heaven-sent ! 

That  armed  our  struggling  land ! 
Hail !  pilgrim-staff  on  which  she  leant. 
Till  Salem's  shining  battlement 

Her  eye  in  gladness  scanned. 
And,  till  that  Sword  from  out  its  sheath 

Shall  leap  —  that  Staff  to  sever — 
So  long  around  our  hearts  shall  wreathe 
Bright  Freedom's  chain — her  accents  breathe 

In  holy  tones  forever! 


Duganne. 


POEMS  OF  BOYHOOD. 


9 


o 


TO   A  FRIEND. 


LUA  VU  me  not,  thou  brightest  one ! 

All  is  joy  when  thou  art  near; 
Thou  canst  teach  my  soul  to  shun 

Paths  of  gloom  and  thoughts  of  fear. 

I  am  like  the  cloud  of  night, 
"Wrapped  in  gloom  and  mystery; 

Thou  the  beaming  morning  light, 
Causing  all  its  gloom  to  flee. 

I  am  like  the  airy  kite. 

Soaring  in  the  sky  above, — 

Guided  in  my  lofty  flight 
By  the  thread  of  thy  sweet  Love ; — 

Ah !  should  fate  the  thread  divide, 

That  connects  my  heart  with  thine, 
Wavering,  then,  without  a  guide, 
Darkness  and  despair  are  mine ! 


Poetical  Works. 


fcMi  rOEMS  0I<'  UOYUOOD. 


TO    A    FRIEND   IN  HEAVEN. 


WU  think  of  thee  ! 
In  the  lone  midnight  hour,  when  all  around 
Is  hushed  in  slumher — when  no  waking  sound 
Disturbs  the  solemn  silence — 0,  't  is  then, 
When  midnight's  pall  hangs  darkly  o'er  the  glen, 

We  think  of  thee  I 


We  weep  for  thee ! 
When  in  sad  memory's  glass  we  see  thy  form, 
As  once  we  saw  thee,  when,  with  pressure  warm, 
Thy  hand  was  clasped  in  friendship's  close  embrace ; 
And,  as  each  well-remembered  line  we  trace. 

We  weep  for  thee  ! 


I   


We  miss  thee,  too ! 
Miss  thee  at  evening,  in  thy  usual  seat, 
Amid  the  social  circle — miss  thy  feet 
In  all  the  walks  of  life  where  thou  didst  stray. 
And  as  we  tread,  without  thee,  each  loved  way, 

We  miss  thee,  too  ! 

391 

  —  =^,1 


1 


Duganne, 


POEMS  OP  BOYHOOD. 

Yet,  rest  thee  now ! 
We  would  not  call  thee  from  thy  spirit-home, 
To  this  dull  earth ;  we  would  not  bid  thee  roam 
Once  more  the  thorny  paths  of  mortal  life, — 
But,  free  from  earthly  woe,  and  earthly  strife. 

Yet,  rest  thee  now ! 


THE    UNSTRUNG  LUTE. 


ALAS!  my  heart  is  like  a  lute — 

A  lute,  unused,  unstrung  ; 
Its  melody  is  hushed,  and  mute 

The  chords  that  erewhile  rung ! 

Yet  there  is  one  can  bid  it  wake 
To  life  and  joy  once  more — 

One  gentle  hand  the  spell  might  break. 
And  bid  its  sleep  be  o'er ! 

Alas  !  that  hand  strikes  not  its  strings. 

The  lute  forgotten  lies — 
Its  chords  are  snapped ! — no  more  it  rings ! 

The  lute,  unvalued,  dies  ! 


392 


Poetical  Works. 

rOKMS  OK  UOYHOOD. 


TO    MY  BOOT. 


BOOT!  that,  trodden  under  foot, 
Seekest  not  to  change  thy  fate ; — 

Happy  art  thou,  lowly  boot ! 
Shining  in  thy  humble  state. 

In  thy  patient  usefulness, 

Guardest  thou  my  feet  from  ill ; 

Though  full  heavily  I  press. 
Uncomplaining  art  thou  still. 

Oft  the  foot  of  Vanity 

Teachest  thou  a  lesson  meet — 
Yet  no  malice  lives  in  thee. 

Guardian  of  the  tender  feet ! 

Even  as  upon  thy  form 

Cast  they  now  a  covering  black. 
So  the  clouds  of  earthly  storm 

Darken  aye  the  good  man's  track. 

Even  as  the  driving  brush 
Rubbeth  roughly  over  thee, 

So  the  heavy  tempests  rush 
O'er  the  good  man's  destiny. 
393 


Duganne. 


POEMS  OP  BOYHOOD. 


Yet,  as  now  each  rougher  blow 
Makes  thy  form  appear  more  bright, 

So  the  storms  of  earthly  woe 

Clothe  the  good  man's  soul  in  light. 

Fare  thee  well,  my  humble  boot ! 

Even  thou  canst  waken  thought ; — 
Lowly  though  thou  art — and  mute — 

Yet  thou  hast  a  lesson  taught. 


BLESS  thee,  0  friend!  —  as  now,  in  wreaths  as- 
cending, 

Twineth  thy  smoke  a  garland  round  my  brow; 
Even    as    those  wreaths  with    Heaven's    airs  are 
blending, 

So  would  my  thoughts  ascend  in  stillness  now! 

Even  as  thy  folds  are  firmly  knit  together, 
So  are  the  hearts  that  holy  Love  unites. 

And  as  thy  smoke  ascends  in  fragrant  ether, 

Mount  their  true  thoughts  to  soar  in  Heaven's 


TO   MY  CIGAR. 


heights. 


394 


Poetical  Works, 


I'OKMH  OK  IIOYIIOOD. 


As  to  the  ground,  unnoticed,  fulls  thine  ashes, 
So  shall  descend  unholy  thoughts  to  earth, 

Wliilc,  in  the  light  of  Virtue's  spirit-flashes, 
Upward  will  soar  the  thoughts  of  purer  birth. 

Even  as  the  living  element,  which  fires  thee, 
Sends  from  thy  form  its  fragrancy  above — 

Even  as  its  influence  alone  inspires  thee, — 
So  is  the  soul  alone  inspired  by  Love ! 

Ah !  if  the  living  flame  be  from  thee  banished, 
Where  is  the  fragrance — where  the  soaring  cloud  ? 

Thus  is  the  soul  from  which  true  Love  is  banished, 
Darksome  and  icy  cold  amid  the  crowd. 

So,   as  the  breath,  which  sends  thy  smoke  to 
Heaven, 

And  as  the  fire  which  gives  its  breath  to  thee, — 
O  !  may  the  breath  of  God  to  me  be  given ! — 
0 !  may  the  flame  of  Love  illumine  me ! 


EPITAPH  ON  A  POET. 


MOCKED  by  the  world,  his  spirit  passed  away; 

Body  and  soul  were  starved ; 
This  massy  stone  is  raised  above  his  clay — 

Elaborately  carved ! 


 Duganne. 

T 


POEMS  OF  BOYHOOD. 


AMEN 


TO  the  mariner's  midnight  pray'r, 
As  he  paceth  the  rolHng  deck ; 
As  he  treadeth  the  parting  wreck ; 
God  !  thou  art  there ; 
Amen ! 

To  the  desolate  widow's  cry, 

As  she  presseth  the  dead  one's  cheek ; 
When  her  spirit  is  faint  and  weak ; 
Hear  thou  her  sigh ! 
Amen ! 

To  the  wandering  orphan's  moan, 

As  he  prayeth  in  chilling  fear ; 

Wilt  thou  banish  the  orphan's  tear — 

Merciful  One? 
Amen  ! 

To  the  suppliant  scorner's  call, 
As  he  hendeth  in  sorrow  low ; 
On  his  spirit  let  mercy  flow ; 
Let  him  not  fall ; — 
Amen ! 

To  the  perishing  traveller's  voice. 
When  the  tempest  is  swelling  high ; 
Be  thy  succoring  mercy  nigh — 
Bid  him  rejoice; 
Amen  ! 


Poetical  Works. 


I'OKMH  Of  iJOYHOOD. 


To  the  desolate  mourner's  prayer, 
In  the  palace  or  prison-cell ; 
Let  thine  answering  mercy  tell, 
Thou,  God  !  art  there ! 
Amen  ! 


AN  ALLEOORT  FOR  A  LITTLB  FRIEND,  WHO  WOULD  KNOW  THB   MKANINO  OF 


FLORIMEL  was  an  artless,  innocent  child. 
And  loved  all  IN'ature.    Every  little  bird 
That  chirrup' d  in  the  wood,  and  every  brook 
That  capered  down  the  hill-side,  she  did  love ; 
And  often  you  might  hear  her  carolling  voice. 
Waking  the  forest  echoes  with  a  song — 
Flute-toned  and  musical,  like  her  feather'd  friends. 

Well !  't  was  a  summer's  eve ;  and  Florimel 
(Chasing  the  butterflies)  had  wandered  far. 
And  sunset  fell  around  her.  All  at  once. 
She  heard  a  fluttering,  and,  looking  round. 
Espied  a  beautiful  bird,  wdth  golden  neck. 
And  lovely  violet  eyes,  and  starry  wings  ; 
But  he  was  prison'd  in  some  fowler's  net. 


« -  ■ 

•SI*' 


cc 


FAREWELL. 


397 


Duganne. 


POEMS  OF  BOYHOOD. 


And  could  not  rise — but,  ever  and  anon, 

His  little  wings  would  flap,  and  his  breast  heave ; 

And  such  a  pitiful  strain  he  did  pour  forth, 

It  grieved  the  little  maiden's  heart  to  hear. 

Florimel  ran  to  loose  him,  and  the  bird 
Turned  his  soft  eyes  upon  her,  and  was  still ; 
For  every  living  thing  did  love  the  maid, 
She  was  so  gentle. 

Soon  the  net  was  loosed  ; 
And  \^^th  a  joyous  flapping  of  his  wings, 
The  bird  flew,  singing,  to  a  hawthorne-bush, 
Close  to  the  maiden's  cheek,  and  rested  there. 
Florimel  listened,  and  in  wonder,  too ; 
For  he  did  call  her  name,  and  then,  with  voice 
Sweet  as  the  tinkling  music  of  a  stream, 
He  spoke,  while  tremblingly  she  gazed  at  him : 

Farewell  ! 
Beautiful  child,  gentle  and  mild, 
Farewell  ! 

And  when,  sweet  maiden,  thou  wouldst  seek 

To  bless  the  friends  thy  heart  doth  love, 
Be  this  the  word  that  thou  shalt  speak, — 
And  turn  thy  seeking  eyes  above, — 
"  Farewell !" 
Well  SHALL  they  fare  who  hear  thy  prayer. 
Farewell  ! 


Up,  in  the  summer-sunset,  flew  the  bird. 
While  Florimel  gazed  in  tearful  wonderment. 


Poetical  Works. 


^>    

I'OKMS  OK  lUn'HOOl). 

The  iniiidoii  turned  her  to  her  cottage-home; 
And,  frisking  in  his  gladness,  came  her  lamb— 
The  dear  pet-lamb — to  meet  her.  Then  she  led 
Iler  favorite,  by  his  silken  chain  of  blue, 
Up  to  his  little  fold,  and  bade  "  Fare  well !" 

But  the  young  lambkin  gazed  into  her  face 
With  a  mute  love-look,  then  lay  down  and — died, 

Florimel's  grief  broke  forth  in  passionate  tears ; 
And,  fleeing  to  her  home,  she  told  the  tale 
Of  her  young  sorrow  to  her  favorite  friend, 
A  silver-throated  humming-bird.    "But  thou!" 
She  cried,  "thou  shalt,  at  least,  fare  well !" 

The  birdling  flapped  its  little  wings,  and  breathed 
His  dying  sigh.    Then,  sad  and  sorrowful, 
Florimel  knelt  beside  it,  and  looked  up 
Into  the  twilight-heaven.    "Are  they  well?" 
She  murmured ;  "  Then,  too,  farewell,  Florimel !" 
And,  falling  down  vdth  her  mute  favorite. 
She  sank  to  innocent  death-sleep,  while  above, 
The  beautiful  stranger-bird  appeared  in  heaven, 
And  whispered,  "All  farewell!" 

FINIS. 


Duganne. 


NOTES 

TO 


WTiere  he,  the  first,  the  morning-martyr,  fell. 

Allusion  is  here  made  to  the  battle  of  Bunker 
Hill,  and  the  death  of  Gen.  Joseph  Warren, 
who  commanded  the  American  forces  on  that 
eventful  occasion. 

(2) 

 or  thrown  the  ringing  duck. 

"  Casting  the  ducque,"  is  a  rural  pastime 
much  in  vogue  in  New  England.  The  game  is 
played  with  rough  stones,  and  is  quite  distinct 
from  quoits. 

(3) 

 Bloody  BrooJc. 

This  name  commemorates  the  scene  of  an 
early  Indian  massacre,  where  a  hundred 
youths— the  flower  of  the  land— were  cut  ofif  by 
the  savage  enemy. 

(4) 

Thy  Webster's  voice  o'erleaps  thebaro/  zones — 
JTiat  mighty  voice  ichich  panoplied  the  loeaJc. 
Daniel  "Webster  pleaded  the  cause  of  Greece 
on  the  floor  of  Congress. 

(5) 

Gave  to  the  Pole  his  glorious  flag,  unfurled. 

During  the  Polish  struggle  of  1830  a  banner 
was  presented  by  citizens  of  Massachusetts  to 
the  patriot  Poles. 

(6) 

Avaria  Jcnows  thee,  and  her  despot-king 
Plucks  at  the  lessons  from  thy  breast  that  spring. 

The  Massachusetts  system  of  common  schools 
has  been  imitated  in  both  Austria  and  Prussia. 

(7> 

 the  battle  Bill,  the  time-worn  Hall. 

Bunker  Hill  and  Faneuil  Hall. 

(8) 

 a  woman's  daring  hand 

Swept  the  invading  despot  from  her  land. 
Zenobia,  Queen  of  Palmyra,  (the  ancient 
"Tadmor  in  the  Wilderness,")  defeated  the  ar- 
mies of  Aurelian  many  times  before  she  was  at 
last  compelled  to  succumb  to  the  Roman 
power. 

(9) 

 where  Tyoth's  gaze  explored  the  skies. 

Tyoth  is  chronicled  as  an  ancient  astrologer 
and  monarch  of  Chaldea. 

(10) 

—  the  sunbeam,  Memnon's  strain  awoke. 
The  statue  of  Memnon,  in  Egypt,  was  said  to 


emit  musical  sounds  as  soon  as  the  rays  of  the 
morning  sun  fell  upon  it. 

(11) 

 Freedom's  new  Coliseum. 

These  apparently  prophetic  lines  were  writ- 
ten ten  years  before  the  Roman  Revolution 
of  1848. 

(12) 

 Thy  bold  Arminius. 

Arminius,  or  Herrmann,  was  a  celebrated 
German  leader,  who  defeated  the  Roman  gene- 
ral. Varus,  in  a  pitched  battle,  A.  d.  10,  there- 
by expelling  the  invaders  of  his  country. 

(13) 

 shall  not  a  Cid  spring  up  ? 

Roderigo,  or  the  Cid,  is  a  celebrated  heroic 
character  of  Spanish  history  and  romance. 
He  fell  at  the  battle  of  Roncesvalles,  a.  d.  778. 

(14) 

 Pelayo's  war-cry. 

On  the  defeat  of  Roderick,  the  last  Gothic 
king  of  Spain,  by  Tarik  the  Saracen,  and  sub- 
sequent overrunning  of  that  country  by  the 
Moors,  a  small  but  gallant  band  of  patriots,  un- 
der the  leadership  of  Pelagius,  or  Pelayo,  held 
out  against  the  invaders,  maintaining  them- 
selves in  valleys  and  caverns,  and  eventually 
founding  the  realm  of  Asturias. 

(15) 

Some  new  Alphonso. 
Alphonso  the  Chaste,  a  descendant  of  Pelayo, 
was  the  first  Christian  ruler  in  Northern  Spain 
who  refused  to  pay  tribute  to  the  Moors,  after 
it  had  been  exacted  for  more  than  a  century. 
Under  his  leadership,  the  Spaniards  drove  the 
Saracens  from  Asturias  and  Navarre,  and  com- 
pelled them  to  limit  their  dominion  to  Granada 
and  Cordova,  whence  they  were  afterwards 
finally  expelled  by  Ferdinand  and  Isabella. 

(16) 

He  who  found  with  freedom  but  a  grave. 
Count  Casimir  Pulaski,  a  Polish  nobleman, 
who  volunteered  in  the  American  cause,  and 
fell  at  the  attack  upon  Savannah,  in  1779. 


Cambyses. 


400 


Page 

Mission  of  Intellect  11 


PART  first: 

I.  The  Vision   13 

II.  Apostrophe   22 

III.  Pilgrimage   23 

IV.  Ordination   27 

part  second: 

I.  Exordium  .      .      .      ,      .  .29 

II.  Invocation   30 

III.  Aspiration   34 

Notes   38 


The  Year  of  the  People        ....  39 

Invocation   41 

I.  Thanksgiving  Hymn        ....  43 

II.  The  Giant   44 

III.  Regeneration   45 

IV.  France  to  Ireland  .....  48 
V.  Prayer  of  Erin   51 

VI.  Freedom  Baffled   53 

VII.  Struggle  of  the  People     ....  55 
VIII.  Avatar  and  Flight        .       .       .       .  55 

401  2  A 


Duganne, 


The  Year  of  the  People. 

IX.  Hungary 

X.  Kome 

XI.  The  Trance 
XII.  Unconquered  . 
Notes 


The  Gospel  of  Labour 

Prelude  .... 

The  Curse  and  the  Blessing 

The  Mystery  . 

The  Hope  .... 

The  Parable  . 

Tyranny  the  Curse 

The  Book  of  Ruins 

The  Lesson  ... 

The  Fate  of  Despotism 

The  Gospel  Revealed  . 

The  Mystery  of  Creation 


69 
71 
73 
74 
76 
77 
78 
79 
80 
82 
83 
84 


The  True  Republic  87 

The  Iron  Harp   101 

The  Song  of  Toil   103 

The  Poet's  Task   104 

The  Poet  and  the  People  ....  106 

The  Poet  to  the  People       .       .       .  .107 
402 

Q\§^e/^   •  (s^' 


Poetical  Works. 




INDEX. 


TuE  Iron  Harp. 

Pa(!;e 

The  Champions  of  Mankind     .       .       .  109 

The  Artisan   110 

Men  of  Thoiiglit   112 

Words  of  Hope   114 

Life's  Odyssey   116 

Past— Present— Future        .       .       .  .117 

The  Lament  of  Pan        ....  119 

Live  them  Down   120 

The  Angels   121 

The  World's  Lie   124 

Men  of  my  Country        ....  126 

Hope  ye  Alway   127 

The  Smithy   127 

The  Pauper's  Place     .       .       .       .       .  129 

The  Poor   130 

The  Poet   133 

Hope  On   134 

The  Toiler's  Hope   135 

Earth-sharing   .       .       .       .       ...  136 

Heart  and  Soul   138 

Trust  in  God   139 

God  and  Man   140 

Our  Mother  Earth   141 

The  Unsold  Lands   142 

Epigram   143 

The  Landless   144 

403  ( 


Duganne. 

ij^  INDEX. 

The  Iron  Harp. 

Page 

Homes  for  the  Homeless        .       ,       .  145 

The  Acres  and  the  Hands  .       .       .  146 

Keep  it  before  the  People  .  .  .  148 
The  Poor  Man's  Fatherland       .       .  .150 

"Who  Owneth  America's  Soil  .       .       .  152 

Epode         .       .  '   154 

ITotes   156 

Parnassus  in  Pillory   157 

I^otes   .      .      .      .      .      .      .  .216 

Manifest  Destiny   223 

I.  Trumpet-Song   225 

II.  The  Eubicon   226 

III.  Triumph   228 

IV.  lo  Poean   231 

V.  Indemnity   233 

The  Maiden  of  the  Shield  ....  235 

Part  First   237 

Part  Second   241 

Part  Third   246 

Part  Fourth     .       ...       .       .  250 


The  Human  Heart 
The  Home  of  Song 


404 


Xv^^_^_         Poetical  Works. 

(^1^  INDEX. 

Y     The  Human  Heart. 

The  Dream  of  the  Tombstone 
Memories  .... 
Loving  Hearts 
Midnight  in  the  Church-yard 

Vespers  

Recompense        .       .       .  . 

Fantasie  

Spirit-Life    .       .       .       .  , 
Spirit-Love       .       .       .  • 
Seemings     .       .       .       .  . 
Faith  in  Love  .... 
Ben  Yusef  .... 
The  Three  Maries  . 
Love  and  Friendship  . 
Herre  I  Love  .... 
Canzonet  .... 
Anacreontique  .       .  . 
Love's  Eyes        .       .       .  . 
Love-Song  .... 
Absent        .       .       .       .  ' 
The  Nourisher  .... 
Heart-Mirrors      .       .       .  . 
My  Mistresse  . 

The  Lost  Pleiad  .       .       .  . 
A  Loving  Life 
To  One  Departed 

405 


Duganne. 


The  Human  Heart. 
Crushed  Flowers 
The  Serpent 
The  True  Vision 
To  a  Dying  Sister 


Metrical  Miscellanies 
Antediluvium  . 
Caractacus.   .       .  . 
The  Germ  of  Good  . 
Baronial  Times.  . 
Plymouth  Kock 
The  Armies        .       .  . 
To  the  Printers        .  . 
Ode  to  Powers'  Greek  Slave 
An  Honest  Ballad  to  John  Bull 
Proverbial  Philosophy 
Ever  be  Happy 
The  Autocrat's  Triumph 
The  Prayer  of  Jesus 
The  Drunkard's  Lament 
Columbus  and  Garabaldi 
Requiem  for  John  Quincy  Adams 
To  my  Lady 

Requiem  for  a  Beloved  Child 
Notes  ... 


Page 

291 
292 
293 
294 

295 
297 
304 
311 
312 
315 
316 
319 
320 
322 
326 
327 
329 
331 
333 
336 
338 
340 
341 
342 


406 


^  Poetical  Works. 

— 

I  N  U  K  X. 

Poems  of  Boyhood  .... 
Massachusetts  .... 
The  Nations  .... 
"Frangas  non  Flectes"  . 
Bhie  Eyes  .... 

Bells  

Evening  

The  Falling  Star  . 
Heart-Seeking  .... 
Heart-Senses  .... 
Midnight  .... 
Song  of  Life  .... 
After  a  Thunder-storm 
Sleep-Love  .... 
Tomb-Flowers      .       .  . 
Summer-Musings 
The  Sword  of  Washington  . 
To  a  Friend  .... 
To  a  Friend  in  Heaven 
The  Unstrung  Lute 
To  my  Boot  .... 
To  my  Cigar  .... 
Epitaph  on  a  Poet 

Amen !  

Farewell !  

Notes  


407 


4 


